


The Dreadfuls

by TanninTele



Series: The Dreadfuls [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Fashion & Models, Alternate Universe - Gangsters, Alternate Universe - Non-Magical, Alternate Universe - Roommates/Housemates, Alternate Universe - Thieves, Celebrities, Con Artists, Crime, Crimes & Criminals, F/F, F/M, Infidelity, Journalism, M/M, Organized Crime, Rape/Non-con Elements, Recreational Drug Use, Revenge, Unplanned Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-09
Updated: 2018-07-16
Packaged: 2019-05-23 11:55:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 7
Words: 21,569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14933801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TanninTele/pseuds/TanninTele
Summary: Best friends and roommates Harry, Hermione and Tonks each have special skills that make them perfect for the London crime scene. Harry, a student in criminology and fashion, is a master of disguise. Tonks, with street-skills and sticky fingers, is unashamed to use her body for what she calls 'The Greater Good'. And although Hermione is a rule-following perfectionist, she's likely the cleverest librarian assistant around, with an affiliation for gathering information of all sorts.In a story of revenge, star-crossed love, crime and passion, our dreadful trio cross the line between light and dark, juggling school work, friends and douche-bag ex-lovers. Not to mention Harry's current douche-bag lover, Tom Riddle; tall, dark, and running the largest con operation in Greater London.Part One of Three(Part Two is Published)





	1. Chapter 1

**_The Dreadfuls_ **

**TanninTele**

* * *

_Disclaimer: All rights belong to J.K. Rowling, voiding that of original content and characters._

* * *

**I:**

With a self-confident sway to her step, Nymphadora Tonks made her way down Blackfriars Road, a bubble of gum expanding from her lips. Her hair, equally pink, was kept in two short pigtails beneath a worn beanie. Her plaid skirt brushed against her thighs, fishnet leggings tastefully ripped to reveal pale, smooth skin.

Tonks' roommate, a fashion major, called it 'grunge revival' as he took a scissors to her tattered denim jacket, turning it into a vest. To be honest, Tonks could wear a damn trash bag and make it work, with her long-lashed bedroom eyes, slim figure and - if her ex-boyfriend could be trusted - her damn fine arse. Tonks didn't trust him.

Remus was a pathological liar with a tendency to get into bar fights, and was arrested ages ago for disorderly conduct and indecent exposure (he mooned a crowdfull of cops), but Dora was no better.

As she shoved past a crowd waiting for the crosswalk, her hand slipped into a man's overlarge trench coat. Nimble fingers relinquished him of his wallet.

She turned left onto a street littered with bird shit. A flock of pigeons scattered as she clomped past, flipping through the wallet's folds. The wallet was made of cheap leather and had only a handful of pounds, a picture of a little girl, and a Travel Card. Popping her gum, Dora tossed the wallet over her shoulder and counted out around twenty notes. She could probably buy pizza tonight, meat-lovers for herself and Harry, cheese for Hermione.

" -  _ferme ta gueule,_ Caractacus," someone snapped, their voice echoing through an alley. "Do  _not_  tell me you have this shite under control. This hasn't been 'under control' for a month; in fact, it's only gotten _worse_ because of your ineptitude."

Tonks paused at that irritatingly pompous tone. "Good God," she murmured to herself, pressing against a wall. "I have the best luck."

"I don't care  _what_ you have to do, who you have to bribe, but you will drain Rita Skeeter and her damn gossip rag for all it's worth. Call it libel. Call it false reporting. Threaten a lawsuit -  _ten_ lawsuits, if you must - I want her off my back about this. She's worse than my father, and that's saying something."

The man continued speaking through his bluetooth. He was dressed head-to-toe in black, from his turtleneck to his shiny leather oxfords, as though in mourning. Mourning the state of his hair, maybe. Tonks scrunched her nose at the unnaturally white color, gelled locks plastered to his head like a protective helmet. He was leaning against his motorbike, the keys spinning around his manicured finger in an anxious manner. "You don't know the lengths I went through  _just_ to leave the penthouse this morning. The 'razzi swarmed my car, so I had to take my bike and park it a damn block from the studio so they wouldn't fucking -  _don't_ tell me to watch my  _fucking_ language."

Calmly, Tonks reached down as if to tie her boot laces. She pulled the lace from it's holes and doubled it, yanking it tight between her hands. 

" - I'm not being childish, this is serious," Draco insisted. "You can't tell him. Father would kill me," he was damn near pleading. "And t- that's a breach of our contract, you wouldn't  _dare._ Yes. I'll tell him, eventually.  _Yes,_ I swear. Goodbye, Caractacus, and fuck you, too." He hung up, breathing out in irritation.  _"Arsehole."_

As Draco reached for his bike helmet, Tonks crept up behind him, brown eyes flashing with anticipation. In one, swift motion, she looped the laces around his throat. Draco gasped, hands flying upwards.

"Drop the keys," Tonks hissed into his ear, voice thick with a Cockney accent. "Drop them, now."

He began to tremble and the darting of his eyes betrayed an inner debate between fight or flight. But they were alone in the alley, and while Draco was finely muscled for his profession, Tonks wasn't afraid of breaking a nail. She tightened the cord, and his fingers dutifully uncurled.

The keys fell with a clatter onto the cement, and she covered them with her boot, sliding them towards her. Tonks smiled. "Thanks, love," her bubble blew, and  _popped,_ the pink bits spraying onto the fine strands of his hair. Draco made a soft whimpering noise.

A new bounce to her step, Tonks snatched up the keys and straddled the bike. It was a beautiful beast, white and sleek. She slipped the helmet over her outrageously pink hair and waved a hand. In it was his brand-new cell phone, glossy and lighting up with new texts.  _Where are you, baby?_ One read, from a contact labeled simply  _Tori_ with a emoticon heart. 

She tsked, tossing it over her shoulder, where the screen shattered. "Wotcher, man-whore."

Outrage flashed in Draco's icy eyes, but before he could speak - voice likely damaged, anyhow - the motor revved and Tonks took off into the streets  

* * *

Tonks arrived safely at their apartment, pulling into a parking space near the front door. She didn't much care if that prick's bike got stolen (again). Even if it  _was_  a beautiful ride and probably cost half her tuition, it's owner left much to be desired.

Tucking the helmet beneath her armpit, she slid her ID into the scanner, and with a green blink, the lobby door clicked open. The lobby was unmanned. Tonks took the opportunity to check their mail, the envelopes crisp in her calloused hands. She took the elevator up, and tasting that her gum had lost it's flavor, stuck it to the button for level 3. The muscle-headed assholes in the room above them had been playing video games until three a.m. for the past week, and she was sick and tired of hearing gunfire and victorious shouts. She got enough of that shit at work, thanks. 

Room 2-b's door was propped open. Harry didn't listen to music while he worked. He said it influenced him too much, forcing ideas and themes that hindered his creative process. Tonks didn't mind, as Harry's music taste was shit anyways, but it was always eerie to come home to an utterly silent home, with nothing but the soft  _chink_ of his needle passing through fabric.

Harry was on his knees before a half-mannequin, the head absent and it's torso swathed in some creamy, chiffon fabric. His green eyes were narrowed in deep concentration as he pinned a corner up, the draping resembling some Ancient Greek fashion.

"It's a toga," he said to himself. "It's a  _fucking_ toga." Removing the pins from his mouth, he slashed a violent line through the open sketch book on his lap. He tugged a hand through his dark curls, coiffed and falling purposefully over his forehead. His long sleeved shirt was rolled up at his elbows, his jeans faded and distressed. Quite like him.

"Jesus," Tonks said in amusement, shutting the door. "Or, should I say, Zeus?"

Harry pushed away the mannequin, it's wheels squeaking against the hardwood. "You would know,  _Nymphadora."_

"Don't  _call_ me Nymphadora." By now, she'd said the words so often they didn't have quite the same sting. She looked down at the motorcycle helmet. "Catch."

The small man grunted, the helmet colliding with his stomach. "What the -"

"Look familiar?" Tonks grinned, collapsing onto their futon. She pushed aside Harry's box of colored pencils and the squares of fabric scattered on the cushion, making room for her legs. Toeing off her boots, she leaned back and smirked at the ceiling fan.

Harry turned the helmet around in his hands, eyes widening at the customized logo.  _DM._ "Tonks! You  _can't_ keep doing this!"

"Whyever not?" she asked, innocent, as though she hadn't just committed a larceny.

"You're going to end up with a restraining order," Harry warned, standing. He threw the helmet onto the coffee table, shoved at her legs and collapsed exhaustedly beside her. "First you hacked his Wikipedia page - "

"It's not hacking if they have an  _'edit'_ button."

"It's hacking if you made it permanent," Harry reminds, before continuing. "You  _hacked_ his Wikipedia page, changing his middle name to 'Lucinda' and, in his bio, heavily imply he was born out of wedlock  _and_ subscribes to neo-nazism."

Tonks snorted, putting her feet in Harry's lap. "He's the poster-boy for the Aryan race. Besides, you  _told_ me he has a tattoo on his back that highly resembles a swastika."

"It was a Celtic knot, Tonks. A Celtic. Knot." He emphasized.

Pink hair splayed across the pillow as she tilted her head. "Any picture proof?" she asked slyly. "I know a guy who works Photoshop like his bitch."

Taking a breath for courage, Harry ignored her. " _Then,_ you sprayed 'Man-Whore' across his billboard on Piccadilly, and now, grand theft auto.  _One of these things is worse than the others,_ " he sang to her.

"Oh," she flapped a negligent hand. "Malfoy isn't gonna snitch. He knows he deserves it. Simple reminder, Harry, he  _cheated_ on you. He gave you that ugly shiner you hide beneath all that concealer," Harry pushed up his vintage, wire-rimmed glasses, flushing. "And immediately left to fuck one of the infamous Greengrass sisters." Tonks narrowed her eyes. "Or was it both? I've lost track of the scandal."

Harry's voice was tight, forcibly dismissive. "I have it on good authority that Daphne is in Havana with her screenwriter girlfriend. It was Astoria that he fucked, to state it crudely, and I  _don't_ want to talk about it."

Tonks blinked at him, brows drawn. "I'm worried about you, is all. Your sketchbook consists of more angry scribbles than art, and you've begun to take it out on your mannequins," she nodded toward the headless object, looking pitiful in nude colors and drooping fabric. Harry made a pained, contorted expression.

Tonks sat up, scooting towards him. "We have thin walls, you know. I heard you crying last night. Practically _moaning_." Her tone softened, almost teasing, to lighten the situation. "I suppose it was a nightmare about all that unsatisfactory sex you had with Draco, hm?"

A bright pink flush cross Harry's features, climbing down his throat, tastefully covered with a patterned neckerchief. A dark, prominent mark stood out on his pale skin. "Um."

Tonks gasped. Her hand flew to yank down the fabric, whistling at the gnarly hickey. "Harry James! You moved on quick. Who was it, then? Or, rather, _how_ was it?" she wiggled her brows. 

 _"Tom_ was quite attentive, thank you," he slapped her hand away and fixed the kerchief.

"How did he even get  _in?"_

"Through the window," Harry admitted shyly. "He climbed up the fire escape."

Tonks cooed. "How  _Romeo and Juliet_."

"If by that, you mean _foolishly romantic,_ then yes," With a sigh, Harry laid his head against Tonks' knee, running an idle finger up the fishnet. "But to answer your question, he was very, very good."

The front door slammed open. Harry sat up, while Tonks remained reclined, used to Hermione's theatrics.  _"Who_ was very good?"

Hermione was a flurry of shopping bags and dark hair. Harry immediately stood to help her with the bags, grunting at the weight of what seemed like dozens of books. "There was a sale at  _Flourish and Blotts,"_ she explained, removing a novel entitled  _Das Parfum_. She tossed it at Tonks, smiling placidly at the exclamation of pain. "When I saw it, I thought of you. I bought a copy, also. Your mum would want you to keep up with your German,  _ja_?"

 _"Küss meinen arsch,"_ Tonks mumbled, rubbing the side of her head.

"So," Hermione huffed, releasing her armful of bags onto the kitchen counter. "What were you talking about?"

Harry's hands stilled as he sorted through the books. "Um."

"Our precious, innocent boy has been having a secret affair behind our backs!" Tonks said, grinning broadly. "He's been _fooling around_ with Tom Riddle.  _Tomfoolery."_

Hermione swung around to glare accusingly at Harry. "You aren't!"

"He is!" Tonks said gleefully. "I, for one, am jealous. Tom is every man and woman's dream. Tall, dark, and - "

"Running the largest con operation in Greater London," the dark-skinned girl hissed.

"Allegedly," Tonks added.

"What if he's conning you?"

Dora grinned. "It must be a very  _long_ con, then, eh, Harry?" Although red-faced, Harry gave Tonks a subtle nod.

Hermione threw her hands up and turned to her bag. "You've already had your heart broken once this year, Harry," she spoke primly. "I don't think jumping into a relationship with a known heart-breaker would be good for you."

"Just because you haven't had a relationship with anyone other than your fictional characters -" Harry began.

With a gasp, Hermione hit him with a magazine. "You  _twat!"_

"That's a hate crime!" he announced.

"Speaking of twats, I ran into the king of them today," Tonks spoke idly from the couch. She was flipping through  _Das Parfum_ , nose crinkled in boredom. "I overheard him screeching at some poor lad on the phone, and, well, I stole his phone." Harry covered his face in his hands. "I couldn't help it," she said in defense. "Also, I'm paying for dinner tonight."

"We don't want your dirty money," Hermione snipped, escorting the weak-kneed Harry over to an armchair. "As much as I abhor that Riddle fellow, I'm awfully glad you've moved on," she told him. "I've got news. Astoria Greengrass -  _that bitch -"_ she and Tonks harmonized. "Has made the front page of Rita Skeeter's  _Daily Prophet."_

"Again?" Harry asked, peeking through his fingers. "I hope she had a nip-slip."

"Worse," Hermione said grimly. She passed him the magazine, previously used to assault him. The attractive blonde on the cover was dressed in sweatpants and a ponytail, a red arrow pointing beneath her rather voluptuous breasts.

 _"ASTOUNDING!"_ Harry read aloud.  _"Astoria Greengrass, Five Months Pregnant?"_ he lowered the paper, voice breaking. " _Is model Draco Malfoy the father?"_

Tonks sat up abruptly, snatching the magazine from his hands. She immediately flipped to the indicated page. Harry felt deeply ill.

Hermione raised her hands, consolingly. "Let's not panic."

"He's panicking," Tonks sighed. Harry's eyes were glistening, his head angled down toward his empty lap, hands trembling.

"Five months," Harry murmured, fists clenching. "That means he was with her while we were dating. More than the once."

Hermione's features pinched as she tentatively placed a hand on his shoulder. "It could be speculation. Rita Skeeter isn't known for her journalistic integrity, and you know how she loves dragging reputations through the mud. Just last week, she accused the Black family of incest -"

Tonks raised a finger. "That is, unfortunately, true."

"Thanks, Dora," Hermione sent her a warning glare. "The point is - "

"He mentioned Skeeter," Tonks spoke abruptly, glancing up from the article. "He was talking this guy, Cataracts-something about suing her for libel."

"See!" Hermione said, pleased. "It's fake."

Harry raked a hand through his hair. "No," he sighed, voice breaking. "Caractacus Burke is the Malfoy's lawyer. If Burke is involved, you know it's big. It must be true."

Hermione and Tonks exchanged a long glance. The night Harry came home a month ago, tears drying on his cheeks and a dark bruise blossoming beneath his eye was still fresh in their memories. The television had been on, an image of Harry's boyfriend snogging with famous actress Astoria Greengrass broadcasted on nearly all the celebrity channels. 

Astoria had been cast as the lead in a television drama, with Draco co-starring as her character's on-again, off-again boyfriend. Harry had felt incredibly uncomfortable watching the show's premiere, and was secretly pleased when the ratings had sunk. Draco had been rarely on-screen except for the occasional hook-up or petty fight, but the chemistry between the two had been obvious.

Harry supposed he should have expected it. 

That didn't make him feel any less like shit.

* * *

**_To be continued . . ._ **


	2. Chapter 2

**_The Dreadfuls_ **

**TanninTele**

* * *

_Disclaimer: All rights belong to J.K. Rowling, voiding that of original content and characters._

* * *

**II:**

**_Godric's Hollow, England_ **

Despite the bare trees and the smell of decaying leaves collecting in the gutters declaring autumn was on the way out, it was a reasonably nice day in the suburbs of Godric's Hollow.

The sun was giving one last 'hurrah', it's swan song, before succumbing to the winter chill. Angela Johnson took advantage of this blessing and donned her joggers and sports bra. This was likely to be her last jog until the Spring. Angela was prone to allergies and knew to expect a season full of intrusive allergist appointments;  _Yes_ , she took her vitamins.  _No_ , she didn't smoke.  _Yes_ , she exercised regularly.

In practiced movements, Angela tugged her long brown hair into a high pony-tail and began her stretches. She had a heart monitor strapped to her arm, along with her cell phone, from which Pink Floyd blasted through her headphones. Bounding down the steps of her cheap rambler, Angela lost herself in the rhythmic movements of her muscles and her measured breaths. Jogging helped clear her head. 

Angela was a graduated from business school, condemned to a career behind a desk at some firm, taking calls from flustered clients, filing paperwork or tracking the stock market. It was boring as fuck and didn't offer many opportunities for advancement, but it was  _stable._ Although she once dreamed to be a star athlete or a woman's right's activist, financial security was, admittedly, the more responsible option. 

Wiping her face, Angela stopped at the corner of Minos Road, eyes lighting upon a lemonade stand.

It boasted in lopsided handwriting to be the  _'best lemonade on the block'._  A little girl with glossy blonde hair sat cross-legged beneath the shade. Her back was towards the road as she read book on her lap. Angela looked down at the innocuous pitcher of lemonade, ice long melted, Dixie cups stacked.

Tugging at her armband, she muted the music and pulled out a folded pound note. She reached to rap on the tabletop. "Hey, sweetie. How much for a cup?" The girl didn't react, seemingly enthralled with her book. Angela tilted her head, noticing that the child hadn't flipped a single page. She was, in fact, quite motionless. Her fingers were oddly placed, the pale digits pressed into the image of  _Dick and Jane_. Sleeping, perhaps? Or ignoring Angela?

"Kiddo?" Tentatively, Angela stepped around the table, into the grass.

Touching the girl's shoulder, the child slumped forward, and Angela screamed at the sight of dead blue eyes.

* * *

**_Hogwarts Academy_ **

"Can anyone find the common factor in these killings?" Professor McGonagall asked the class. "Other than the obvious."

She peered over her glasses imperiously as nearly all of the upraised hands slowly lowered. The professor ignored the frantically fluttering arm of Cho Chang and sighed in disappointment.

"Alright, fine. Let us look at the evidence," she clicked a button on his remote. The screen behind her flicked past several images of crudely-made lemonade stands, evidence markers placed next to the pitchers of juice and the identical  _Dick and Jane_  books.

"The victims were all girls, aged five-to-six, with blonde hair and similar build. They were selected from the nearby school-grounds, lured from their recess periods and smothered with a lethal amount of chloroform. The bodies were carefully dressed - much like dolls - in pink, handmade dresses, mimicking a style from the 1950s. They were placed facing away from the street, the same copy of  _Dick and Jane: Guess Who_  placed in their laps," her perpetually pursed lips twitched slightly at the title. "The lemonade was made from freshly-squeezed lemons. There were faint traces of lacrimation in the juice - that would be tears, Miss Chang." She said, glaring at her raised hand. "However, the DNA was unsalvageable due to the lemon's acidity."

"In terms of location, the bodies were found in broad daylight, blocks from their elementary school." She showed a Google Maps screenshot of each crime scene, and was pointedly quiet for a moment. "No one sees the correlation here?"

It was a Friday. Perhaps this could explain the listlessness of his class, but Minerva had little patience for incompetence. Her eyes narrowed on the idly doodling figure of Harry Potter. He sat in the front row, near the door, making for an easy escape. He was dressed in nearly all black, the shadows molding around him, hiding him from plain sight. The boy's curly fringe covered his eyes, his right hand deft in sketching the The Dollmaker's victim.

Minerva cleared her throat. "Mister Potter?  Would you like to join the class in this discussion?"

Potter winced. He sat down his pen and leaned back, staring at the screen. 

Minerva suspected Harry, usually an engaged student, was under some sort of emotional crisis. He was a lively child on most occasions, making many thoughtful insights and showing an immense ability to understand the motives of even the most perplexing killers. It was intriguing, and McGonagall wanted to put him to the test.

"Any thoughts, Potter?"

The boy was quiet for several long moments, as if deliberating.

"The street names." He said eventually. Harry pushed the fringe from his forehead, eyes flicking back and forth between his drawing and the screen. "Crete Circle. Labyrinth Lane. And the last one, Minos Road. All references to Greek mythology. Specifically, the myth of the Minotaur."

"Very good, Mister Potter," Minerva said with a small smile. "You've surprised me." Harry ducked his head, and Minerva continued. "Meet Ariadne Dumbledore, six-year-old sister of Albus Dumbledore," with a click, he revealed a black-and-white image of a smiling little girl, her hair light and her cheeks flushed. A bow was tied in her hair.

"She died young, brutally stoned to death by a gang of boys while setting up a lemonade stand on the corner of her street. It wasn't easy to find her. All we knew was the killer's archetype. The girls were donned in dresses from the 1950s, so that narrowed down the time scheme. At a loss, we considered the other items left for us. The books -  _Dick and Jane_  - were supplied from antique shops throughout London, sold to a man in his late fifties. Security cameras captured his face, and once we found Albus, everything just . . . came together.

"Albus Dumbledore grieved for fifty years before his torment came to fruition. His defense claimed Albus was experiencing early signs of Alzheimer's, and clung to the memory of his little sister, sitting happily at her lemonade stand, practicing her reading. He sought to recreate the moments before she was attacked, freezing her in time with his . . . little dolls," disgust and pity colored the professor's voice. "Dumbledore was hailed by his defense as a grieving old man, under the effects of an unavoidable disease. They pleaded insanity, and he was sent to a mental institution rather than face the full extent of the law . . . rather than face the families of the little girls he killed.

"The girls died painlessly, no doubt, but that doesn't make their passing any less unpleasant for their parents and siblings. Siblings whom he has condemned to a lifetime of grief. Who is to say they won't go down a similar path? Who is to say this brutal cycle won't begin again?"

Tentatively, Cho Chang raised her hand. Minerva nodded at her, leaning back against her desk.

". . . You sound doubtful, professor. Do you think Albus Dumbledore guilty? If he wasn't in the full capacity of his brain at the time of the murders - "

Minerva waved a negligent hand. "We could talk in circles on this subject all day, Miss Chang. Psychology and criminality go hand in hand often, but I'm in no way qualified to lecture you on it. I was a field worker, Miss Chang. I looked at the evidence given and followed it to to Albus Dumbledore." She spoke slowly. "And the evidence tells me, regardless of his mental state or constitution, that Albus Dumbledore killed those girls."

Chang seemed ready to argue, and while Minerva respected her for it, she would not begin this debate today. "Perhaps I can put it this way," the professor paced across the platform and spoke clearly, firmly, hands behind her back. "A person is killed, and you blame the one holding the knife. But the killer, unfortunately, was abused as a child and is clearly mentally unstable. His parent that abused him was raped, and never wished to be a mother in the first place. Her rapist, too, was a damaged individual, and was only loving her the only way  _he knew how._

"This is all hypothetical, of course; but it's a chain of tragic events leading up to it's latest victim. We can point our fingers all day, blame the circumstances or a chemical imbalance, conjecture the court's ear off, but that doesn't change to result.

"How do we prevent murders of the past? How do we protect the victims of future trauma? We are not all-knowing, Miss Chang. We can educate, we can remove children from hostile situations, we can rehabilitate killers, and prevent them from repeating these actions. But we  _cannot_  predict the future. We cannot change the past. I have no clear answer for you, except to reassure that so long as there's a vicious cycle to be had - a spiked wheel, throttling innocents wherever it rolls - " she spoke dramatically. "That people like  _us_  will be there to remove a few spokes. And  _perhaps_ the cycle will break."

Her words resounded through the lecture hall.

"Your job this week; with the partner you were assigned at the beginning of the semester, research this case and others like it. Convoluted plots, in which you wonder ' _who is truly to blame?'_ when it comes to the perception of both justice and revenge."

With that, McGonagall dismissed the class. Cho, of course, stayed behind to ask questions. Minerva indulgently answered them, while the rest of the students fled in a flurry of coats and scarves. Harry Potter was moving slow, ripping a piece of paper from his notebook.

Minerva dismissed Chang, and began turning off the projector.

"Mister Potter," she said evenly. "Was there something you needed?"

Harry pressed his lips together, stepping down from the stands. "I - yes, Professor," he seemed nervous. Now that he was in the light, Minerva could see he was wearing a dark-blue mandarin dress shirt, patterned with brocade swirls. Beneath, he wore black leggings so tight that Minerva wondered if she had to refer him to the school dress-code.  

"Shouldn't you be headed to your next lesson?"

"It's a free period. Professor, I . . . wanted to talk about the killer's insanity plea."

Minerva sighed dramatically, gathering her papers with an impatient speed. "I believe I made my message clear, didn't I? The evidence - "

"The evidence points to Albus Dumbledore, yes. You traced him through the books and the street names, and you found the correct man, but the very  _notion_  that Dumbledore was in anyway complacent to his crime because of Alzheimer's is - well - " Potter visibly attempted to calm himself. "The evidence suggests that Dumbledore cried while making the lemonade. He squeezed the lemons fresh, having hand-picked the fruit from - if I made a guess - a tree in his yard? He tailored the girls' dresses from memory, the fabric and style mimicking that of his little sister's. He made lemonade stands by hand and placed them on roads named for Greek characters.

"These murders weren't made by a disoriented and diseased man. His design was  _premeditated_ , for years, even. He killed them within weeks of each other, leading up to the fiftieth anniversary of his sister's death."

McGonagall tried to interrupt, but Potter continued. His eyes were faintly glazed as he stared down at the crumpled drawing of the killer's first victim. "How did he know these girls? All blonde, all the same age, all living within miles from the same elementary school - " Potter flickered his gaze up. "Did Mister Dumbledore have a grandchild?"

The professor blinked and slowly reached for her files. "I - believe so, yes," licking her fingers, Minerva flipped through the manilla folder. "He adopted a son, who had a daughter named Rosemary. Six years old. A brunette, which didn't match the archetype, so we didn't think she was - "

"She wasn't his target. But she was a connection to those other girls," Harry spoke quietly. "Six years young and loved dearly by her grand-pappy. He couldn't kill her. He wasn't inclined. But watching her grow struck a chord in him. He made those dresses and the lemonade stands under the pretense of giving them to Rosemary. He bought the same book three times, and if anyone noticed the repetition, they would assume his aging mind was declining. It's not difficult to fake confusion and memory loss to pass the M'Naghten Rules . . ." Harry trailed off, letting Minerva fill in the blanks herself.

"The perfect cover," she murmured. "Hiding behind his age and the expectation of illness."

"Dumbledore was smart. He was determined. But he's  _not_  a psychopath. He was merciful when killing the girls, and treated their bodies with care," Harry imagined a wrinkled hand wiping tears from the pale, blemish-less cheek of a doll-like creature. "I'm certain after the anniversary of his sister's death, he would have never killed again. He may even have grown to regret the pain he caused to the families. There's no doubt the man is twisted, but like you said in your example of the mother and the rapist, he was just . . . showing them familial love in the only way he knew.  _Storge_. He was memorializing his sister, and - perhaps - after fifty years, finally gaining closure for himself."

McGonagall considered Potter for a long, uncomfortable moment. Harry was utterly motionless, refusing to show his desperate need for the woman's approval. "You've given me much to think about, Mister Potter," she said, eventually. "If what you say is true, and Albus Dumbledore is acting under some sort of . . . Munchausen syndrome, I owe it to the families of those girls to reopen the investigation. The mental institution is too good for him."

Harry gave a short nod in thanks. Minerva contemplated him once more. "Good work, Potter. If this pans out, I may be willing to give you a recommendation for - "

"Oh. Oh, no thank you," he interrupted, tightening the bag around his shoulders. "I'm not going into law enforcement. Not anymore."

The woman narrowed her eyes. "You have a knack for it, Potter. What made you choose to abandon your dream of becoming a police officer, for - "

"Designing their uniforms?" Harry said with a slight laugh. "It's . . . safer. My father was a policeman, and I always wanted to follow in his footsteps. But, lately . . . " he trailed off.

"I understand your reluctance. But, truly, if you ever change your mind, we'd be lucky to have you."

He flushed, demure. "I really don't - "

"Learn to take a compliment, Potter," Minerva shook her head, still in disbelief. "Was that all?"

Harry paused. "My project partner, who you assigned at the start of the year? Ron Weasley? He hasn't attended class in weeks. Do I have to - "

"You have to," she said firmly. "Track him down. Tell him, if he wants to pass the course he must do this assignment and all other partner projects. Now, off with you. I've got to make a call."

Harry fled the classroom like the hounds of Hell were on his tail.

* * *

Hermione worked afternoons in the onsite library. Her uniform consisted of a frayed red lanyard, a picture of herself next to the Hogwarts Academy emblem, and a black pen, tucked into her breast pocket.

The library was painted in brown and tan, the air smelling faintly of must. Fliers were strewn across the community bulletin board; _Learn Self-Defense with Professor Flitwick - Join Youth Leadership! -_   _Help Protect Against Terrorism: If You Suspect It, Report It._

"Hermione?" her head jerked up. The head librarian was a slim, wrinkled woman named Madam Pince, her brown hair faded and grey. She wore silver readers that teetered on the tip of her nose, their beaded chain looping over her small ears. "Can you quiet those brats?" she murmured, dried lips smacking.

A small group of pimply, freshmen students had entered the library. They snickered beneath their breath at Madam Pince, who was struggling with the staple remover. "Find a place to sit," Hermione snapped at them, grabbing an armful of history books. She pushed them into the proper bookshelves, running a finger down a dusty spine.

"Hermione," Annie said out from behind the desk. She stacked her papers onto the table, nudging them away with a pencil. "File these under Overdue, if you will? It's been over four months since Mister Potter checked out that book on forensics. I've sent him email after email, but nothing! He's your roommate, isn't he? Speak with him?" she pleaded.

Hermione smiled apologetically. "I'll try, Madam Pince." Inwardly, she remembered the peanut-butter stained book shoved beneath Harry's covers. Madam Pince would be scandalized at the state of it. It'd probably be best if Harry just paid the overdue fee.

As she was in the office sorting through a number of manilla files, Hermione spotted a familiar head of pink hair outside the library, next to a slim boy. She squinted her eyes, pushing aside the white curtain.

Speak of the devil.

Nymphadora had rode up on her motorbike, Harry's arms wound tight about her waist. He was flushed and had wind-swept hair, while Dora was dressed in an overlarge bike jacket, her hair in cornrows. Harry stumbled off the bike, looking ready to puke.

Hermione nearly banged her forehead against the glass.

They were so  _embarrassing._

As they entered the front door, Hermione sighed, and pulled her brown hair back. It was tight against her scalp, revealing her strong jaw and sharp nose. Deciding to waste as much time as possible, Hermione tidied up the office. Unfortunately, could only straighten the same files so many times. With heavy feet, she dragged herself to the front desk, hearing Tonks' high voice reverberating through the library.

Hermione was the only librarian available. Madam Pince was gone, likely taking a smoke in the back alley. Hermione tucked a curl behind her ear and busied herself on the old Windows XP computer. As she was checking the archive, a delicate rap came at the desk.

Hermione glanced up for the briefest of seconds, before covering her eyes with a gasp.

Dora had taken her jacket off, the sleeves wrapped around her hips. She was wearing - what Harry would call - a crop top, but the hem stopped less than a millimeter beneath her nipples. It showed far more cleavage than Hermione would prefer seeing at her place of work.

"Honestly, Dora," she murmured. "You're dressed like a harlot."

"I am a harlot, dear," Tonks placed her elbows on the desk, leaning forward suggestively. The tone had shifted to something Hermione was even less comfortable with. Feeling a lick of heat rise to her cheeks, Hermione fixated her gaze onto Dora's chin. Safe, neutral ground.

"Normally I would  _never_ bother you at your place of work," Tonks was explaining to her, twisting a thin pink braid between her thumb and forefinger. "But Harry needs your expertise for his criminology course. I thought we could take a little jaunt over and visit our  _very_ best friend."

Hermione scowled. "And where will you be? If I catch you getting someone off in the bathroom - "

"I'll be over by the bean-bag chairs. Promise."

The librarian sniffed. " _Fine_. But library rules still apply. If I see you  _abusing_ the books in anyway, or god-forbid,  _flirting_ with those freshman, I will kick you out faster than you can say -  _son of a bitch,"_ Hermione swore. Tonks had already sauntered toward the freshman, her pink lips stretched into a teasing grin.

Harry muffled a laugh.

Hermione shot him a glare. "What do  _you_ want, then?"

"Right. Well, I have a project due on Albus Dumbledore," Harry told her. "He's a child killer who was falsely exonerated. Do you have any old newspapers, or . . . ?"

Hermione quickly tapped 'Dumbledore' into the library database. She scrolled through a few options. "I can commission some newspapers quite soon," Hermione offered. "A few case files are available, but they're rather gruesome, fair warning."

"That's perfect, thanks," he said, distractedly.

"All of it? Would you like me to request the newspapers, too?"

 _"Everything,"_ Harry emphasized, scowling. "I need all the information I can get."

Hermione considered him. "You look constipated."

"Frustrated, more like. I'm doing all the work by myself. McGonagall assigned me a partner who hasn't been in class for weeks. He's been skipping, or something, but I'm the one who has to pay for it."

Hermione made a sympathetic cluck. "I can imagine. Want to talk about it, love?"

"Things have just been . . . rough lately, is all. With Draco and Tom, and my  _stupid_ lab partner.  _Boys_. Honestly, I should've stayed in the closet."

The librarian snorted. "Come behind my desk, Harry," she quirked her finger. "I've got something to show you." That sounded potentially ominous, and more than a bit suggestive.

Harry arched a brow. "You're pretty and all, Hermione, but I  _really_ don't swing that way."

"Shut up and get back here." Glancing around for Madam Pince, she tugged Harry by the sleeve. "Check this out." Hermione typed out a password, too fast for Harry to read, and a long list of names appeared on screen. "We have a database for everyone with a school library card. You had to fill out an application, remember? Date of birth, contact info - "

"Clever girl," he praised. "Look up 'Weasley'," Harry urged, eyes bright and reflecting the screen. He pulled a notepad toward him and swiped the pen from Hermione's pocket.

She made a vague swat at his hand. "Okay . . . there are - wow, a lot of Weasleys. That's not a common name, is it? There's Charles - that one's expired, Frederick, George, Ginevra, Percival, Ronald - "

"Ron Weasley. That's him," Harry scrawled out the boy's address. "Ugh. He's in a fraternity. Gryffindor House."

"Of course he is," Hermione grimaced. She quickly exited the page and shooed Harry away. "Your books will arrive in two weeks time," she said imperiously, nose in the air, just as Madam Pince returned. She smelt distinctly of tobacco.

Harry folded the parchment and grinned at her. "Thank you very much, Miss Granger. Oi, Tonks!"

Madam Pince, Hermione, and plenty of others, shushed him.

Tonks looked up from where she was perched on a ladder. She had been whispering into a freshman boy's ear, his eyes wide and a textbook held suspiciously over his lap. "Wotcher, Colin," she winked. Tonks removed her hand from his back pocket, palming a velcro wallet. "Best of luck on your test."

She bounced back to her friends and leaned across the counter to kiss Hermione on the cheek. "Later, love." Her lips left a faint stain on Hermione's flushed cheeks.

Hermione glared at their backs as Tonks steered a giggling Harry away. "What was  _that_  about?"

"As a distraction, I told that kid if he was  _a good boy,_ he could stop by some night and watch 'Mione and I have sweet, steamy lesbian love." Tonks slipped his wallet into her jacket's inner pocket.

"Uh - " Harry choked on his laugh. "Why?"

She shrugged. "Poor kid is studying Gender and Sexuality 101. I was just offering hands-on tutoring."

"You don't even  _go_ to this school," Harry reminded.

"Yeah, but suckers like him pay for your tuition, not to mention our rent." She pulled on the motorbike helmet. "Where to, mi'lord?"

"Gryffindor House fraternity. And, this time, go the speed limit?  _Please?"_ He wound his arms around her, already anticipating a bumpy ride. Tonks reversed them with a jerk, spinning them eastward.

"No promises!"

* * *

**_To be continued . . ._ **


	3. Chapter 3

**_The Dreadfuls_ **

**TanninTele**

* * *

_Disclaimer: All rights belong to J.K. Rowling, voiding that of original content and characters._

**_Chapter Warning: Recreational Drug Use and Brief Non-Con Sexual Content_ **

* * *

**III:**

The sky was burning orange when they arrived at Gryffindor frat house. It seemed that as the sun went down, the partying began. On the roof of the three-story, run-down home, a shirtless boy was whooping, thrusting two large sticks in the air. They were slathered with soap, and as the wind picked up, human-sized bubbles were released into the air. A group of girls, sitting at the edge of a fenced-off pool screamed and cowered as the bubble was popped, showering them in sticky soap.

Tonks smirked. These were her people.

They parked in front of the house and Tonks shucked off her jacket. "Think they'll even let us in there?" Harry asked nervously.

"Oh, definitely," Tonks assured him, fixing her halter top. She adjusted the switchblade tucked in her bra. "So long as I'm with you, at least. You still look underage."

Harry frowned at her. "I don't have much experience with parties." The only ones he attended were his aunt's garden parties, in which he served tea and little sandwiches to the gossiping, red-hat wearing house wives of Surrey. Their high voices and cheek-pinching ways enforced in him a deep abhorrence for floral patterns. 

"Should we have brought . . . I don't know, cheese dip or something?"

Tonks laughed, but didn't bother answering the question. She bounced up the front steps, leaving Harry to linger behind. Harry ran a hand through his hair, recently washed, letting his natural curls frame his face. Tonks playfully called it his 'sex hair'. He'd shaved that morning, but his five o'clock shadow was dark and prickly.

"Just be yourself," she told him unhelpfully, squeezing his wrist. The door opened. "Wotcher," Tonks said to the college student leaning casually against the frame. "Heard there was a party. Got any beer?"

The redhead, wearing a ketchup-stained shirt and swimshorts, eyed her up and down. He gave her a lazy smile. He was devilishly freckled, and had tattoos twining up his arms and neck. Harry could see a fiery dragon on his collarbone, tail twined around the letter 'W', along with some strange serpent and skull design on his forearm that Harry didn't immediately recognize.

"For you, love? I got something a bit stronger," the boy smirked. "The name's Fred. If you see someone that looks like me, but sober and far less handsome, that's my twin George. Come on in, I'll show you the kitchen."

Dora grabbed Fred's extended elbow, following him into the house with a self-satisfied grin. Gryffindor House was crowded and most certainly decorated by a hunter, made of dark wood and decorated with lots of antlers. Spoils of the hunt were displayed on the walls; a sleek black hunting rifle, the coat of a lion, an indigenous tapestry. "Gryffindor's founder, Godric Gryffindor was an avid hunter," the boy said proudly. "It's become a tradition to go hunting every season. Top of the leader-board is Oliver Wood, who graduated last year," he nodded toward a glossy wooden plaque. "He's at the party tonight. He shot a fourteen stone buck last year; that's it's hide." They stepped around a rug and the couple snogging horizontally on top of it.

The air shifted between too-cold and too-warm, and Harry shifted uncomfortably when he noticed a crowd of people snickering in the corner. They all had glasses full of some golden-brown liquid, and alcohol was heady on Fred's breath.

"Oh, they're playing Spin the Bottle!" Tonks dug her nails into Fred's arm. "Let's go play. Harry, find your lab partner; I'll be over there." Harry watched as she ditched him, laughing breathily in Fred's ear. 

Sucking in a deep breath, he ventured on. 

In the kitchen, a tall man was gnawing on a toothpick, barbeque sauce speckled on his lips. Strewn across the table was a haphazard array of snack foods and liquor bottles. Harry vaguely recognized the boy as Cormac McLaggen, a boy formerly tutored by Hermione in mathematics, before she reported him to an administrator for his unsolicited, inappropriate jokes. 

"God, I love this shit," his lips smacked as he gnawed on a veal shish-kabob. "You're Potter, right? Good friends with Granger? I wouldn't mind seeing her at one of these parties, letting her hair down, you know." He gave Harry a sly wink.

Harry narrowed his eyes. "Hermione isn't into you, Cormac. She nearly broke your wrist the last time you tried to grope her."

"I'd gladly take the blow again for another handful of that thick ass," Cormac jeered. Harry glowered at him, fighting the urge to take some of those kebob sticks and shove it into his eye. If Cormac laid a single finger on 'Mione -

"Hey, man," McLaggen took note of Harry's stony expression. "You gotta loosen up, I was just playing. Want a beer? Georgie got some of the good shit."

A cold, wet bottle was shoved into his hands, condensation dripping down his wrist. The cap had been popped off for him, and Harry took a slow sip. He was all-too familiar with beer, his uncle's drink of choice. His early childhood had been spent throwing out empty bottles, dodging them as they were lobbed at his head, and picking the shards of glass from his skin if he moved too slow.

"Damn it," Eyes narrowing, Cormac darted outside after a few boys struggling with a beer keg and a plastic funnel. "For fuck's sake, Seamus, no anal chugging! No one wants to see your pasty arse!"

Harry wondered how these people could consider themselves adults. Some of the men here, like Cormac, were pushing their late twenties, destined to be college wash-outs; all muscle mass, rotted liver and no brain.

Sighing, he took a reluctant drink of his beer. A crowd cheered in the distance as two dark-skinned girls began sloppily making out. "Lavender," a red-haired boy groaned, slumping into a kitchen chair. "Not again."

"That your girlfriend?" Harry asked, amused. The boy had short copper hair, and was wearing a Hawaiian shirt that had seen better days. Normally, Harry would never have spoken to him except to critique his fashion sense, but he seemed oddly familiar - 

The boy grunted at him. "I thought so, but I invited her, and she's clung to her 'best friend' Parvati all night."

"Don't most guys think that's hot? Two girls?" Harry spent a moment imagining Tonks and Hermione together, but shuddered. "Most straight guys, at least."   

"My brothers, maybe. I just finally found a girl that found _me_ 'hot', and it turns out she's a lesbian."

Harry sent him an appreciative gaze. "I think you're cute, if that matters any." 

Brown eyes peered up at him. "You do, huh?" he asked dubiously, before thrusting out a hand. "Ron Weasley. But I don't swing that way, no offense."  

"Harry Potter. No offense taken," Setting down his beer, Harry shook it. Ron looked curiously at Harry's black-painted nails, before shrugging. "You're in my criminology course."  

"Are we?" Ron asked sheepishly. "I - uh - haven't really been attending."

"I noticed. McGonagall assigned you as my lab partner, and - well - she's tired of dealing with your shit."

"The slides make me queasy," the boy defended. "All those dead bodies and stuff. I always wanted to be a policeman, but there's so much  _gore_ _._ And it's too late in the semester for me to drop."

Harry could sympathize with that.

During the day, he avoided thinking about all he's seen, like one would avoid a swarm of bees. At night, when he tossed and turned in bed, recovering from a horrific nightmare of his mother's screams, blood seeping from a wound in his forehead, and the blaring green light of his parent's car crash . . .

Surely, a job investigating gruesome murders and psychopathic killers was detrimental to his health - but it was all he had ever desired. His father had been a policeman.

It had been Draco that wanted him to switch majors. Draco had thought police work was too dangerous. He played a police man on a television show, once, and had hated every moment of it. The uniform, the gun-toting, the inner politics. Draco said that Harry would wither away in that career, underappreciated and underpaid.

And Harry believed him.

When he lived with the Dursleys, his uncle and cousin were constantly outgrowing their old clothes or ripping their new ones. Harry quickly learned how to work a needle and thread, which came in handy modifying all of Dudley's cast-offs to actually  _fit_ Harry. He figured, if he could make an overlarge t-shirt that resembled elephant skin into a tasteful tunic, he could do  _anything._

Just not, apparently, police work.

Ron watched his expression tightened, concern radiating from him. "Potter - are you . . . Did I say something?"

"No, no," he brushed him off quickly. "You're fine. I'm just - " Harry loosened the first two buttons on his shirt. "We have an assignment McGonagall says needs to be done, or else she'll flunk you. And I'll be in trouble, too. She's a hard-ass." 

"Look, here's my number," Ron conceded, tearing off the label on his bottle and stealing a pen from a little cup. "Call me, and we can figure out a way to get your project done. Alright?"

Harry took the note, giving a small, grateful smile. "Thanks, mate. I'm going to find my friend. I wanna go home. There's this guy here, a real perv, talking about my roommate earlier. I wanted knock his teeth in, honestly, but he'd be more likely to beat me up if I tried," Harry gave a tired laugh, struggling to his feet. "It was a pleasure. Good luck with your girlfriend."

Ron grimaced. "Don't think we'll be together in the morning, but that's alright, I suppose."

"Who knows," Harry said encouragingly. "The love of your life could be here tonight, but you're not gonna find them if you're sulking in a corner."

Brown eyes roamed around the fraternity. "You think? I hope so."

Slipping back into the throng, Harry gratefully took another beer, offered to him by a faceless partier, smoke and bright lights tinging his vision. Shoulders drawing tight, Harry cut through the crowd, evading the scantily-dressed women grinding against their partners. Vivid lights strobed across the room, illuminating the diverse skins and the glittering outfits. He found Tonks conversing with a dark-skinned girl, sitting cross-legged on the floor.

"Dora - " he tugged at her sleeve. "Are you . . . smoking?"

Held between two fingers was a skinny blunt, grey wisps burning off the end. She gave him a sheepish smile and released a stream of smoke from her nostrils. "Want a hit?" she asked innocently.

"I - not particularly," he crinkled his nose at the smell. "Is it safe to drive while high?"

"Absolutely."

Harry let out a small, dubious noise. "But - "

"Oh!" Tonks, eyes wide and bloodshot, pointed toward the beer pong table. "It's my turn. Here, take this." The blunt was placed in his hands and Tonks disappeared with a flutter of pink hair.

Harry wasn't quite sure what to do with it. It blazed slowly in his hands, and he slowly became adjusted to the smell. "You gonna hit that or just hold it?" the boy next to him asked, amused. Harry considered the blunt. One hit wouldn't do any harm, would it?

It felt normal and natural when he brought the tightly rolled paper to his lips. They parted and he inhaled the smoke, regretting it immediately.

He choked on the foul flavor, lungs suffusing with the vile pollution, burning in protest. The brown-haired boy next to him laughed, not cruelly, and plucked the blunt from Harry's fingers. "Virgin, huh?" Harry spluttered, coughing violently into his sleeve. "Take another hit, it gets better. Draw it into your mouth first, before breathing it in. Slowly, now - there. Better?"

Harry nodded, head of curls bouncing.

He leaned back and watched distractedly as Tonks reached over the table and spun the amber bottle in one, clean twist of the wrist. The bottle spun and twirled, glinting enticingly, before coming to a wobbly stop on a red-haired boy. He looked like Fred, if Fred had a doppelganger dressed in horrific Hawaiian print.

Wolf-whistles echoed as she took the proffered hand, letting herself be dragged off to some closet for 'seven minutes in heaven'. The more he smoked, the hazier things became, and he almost didn't mind when the boy next to him began to creep a hand up his leg. Heat pooled in his stomach, and he panted slightly.

"What's your name?" he whispered to the man.

The stranger grinned. "Everyone calls me Wood."

"Because of your . . . wood?"

He grinned, roguish, leaning forward to press a rough kiss to his mouth. "Sure, kid. Just relax. I think you owe me now, anyways."

Harry made a slight, desperate noise. "Um - no. I shouldn't. I'm sort of . . . I'm with someone. On and off."

The boy tipped his head. "Well, is it on or off right now?"

"On?"

Wood crept forward, pushing Harry to the floor, a gentle hand on his chest. "Are you  _asking_ me, or telling me?"

Harry's gasp was muffled by a warm, wet, foul-tasting tongue in his mouth.

* * *

Tonks watched with hooded, glazed eyes, as the stem of the bottle spun - and the shiny ring landed on Fred. Or was it George?

The boy grinned, and Tonks curled an enticing finger toward him. "Seven minutes in heaven, love?"

George nodded almost frantically. Tonks allowed herself to be lead away. George pulled her down a set of stairs and opened a door, the wood creaking. The closet was warm, and a furnace thrummed like a beating heart. Tonks was pushed against the wall, her knee slotted between his legs. Her hand crept to the back of his jeans, clutching at his belt. Pupils dilated, leaving only a halo of murky brown, George gave her a small smile.

"We don't have to do anything if you're not comfortable," he whispered. "I'm sober, and I'm not gonna take advantage - " he bit off with a gasp as she ground her knee up.

"Aren't you sweet?" Tonks told him, all saccharine. "Quite the gentleman for  _a gang member,_ " she pushed almost painfully against his crotch. As Geooge yelped, she wrapped her fingers around his arm and flipped positions. His head slammed against the wall, and Tonks yanked up his sleeve, revealing the entirety of his Dark Mark.

"Tommy boy is hiring awfully young, isn't he?" With a  _snick,_ she removed her switchblade. 

"Jesus Christ, woman," George pulled away, rolling his shoulder. "Put the knife away! I'll explain!"

Tonks scowled at him, lowering the switchblade with great reluctance. Still, she kept it hanging at her side, in case the little weasel tried anything. "I don't mind your boss and my boy getting it on, but Riddle's Death Eaters are notoriously  _assholes._ What are you doing in a fraternity?"

"Living my life," George muttered. "Look, girl - "

"The name's Tonks."

" _Tonks_ , then," he said empathetically. "I don't know what you  _think_ you know about me or Riddle, but you shouldn't go picking fights with every Death Eater you meet. Not all of them are as nice as me and my brother, you're right about that."

The girl flipped back a dreadlock, leaning against a shelf. "How can I be assured me and my roommate will leave here unharmed? We've got five minutes left 'in heaven', more than enough for you to convince me not to shank you."

"I'm not going to hurt you," George insisted, raising his hands. "I told you, I don't take advantage. Fred and I - we don't  _hurt_ people. Not permanently, anyway." He puffed out a breath of air, eyeing her switchblade. "I'm not really supposed to  _tell_ people about this. These are our 'secret identities', you could say. Tom lets us daylight as regular, if not incredibly dashing college students, while at night . . . we work for him."

"Right," Tonks said slowly. "But  _why?"_

George shifted uncomfortably. "A couple years ago, our baby sister Ginny got mixed up with his sort. She was only eleven, and walking home from school, she saw something she shouldn't have. It really scared her. When we found out, we tracked Tom down and messed with him for  _weeks._ Pranks, mischief, general tomfoolery - " Tonks barely resisted cracking a smirk.

"We had the Death Eaters  _scrambling_ with our stink bombs and  carefully laid slime buckets. I even figured out how to access their fuse box and back-up generator; their command center was in total darkness, with no electricity for an hour before they caught us." He grinned stupidly. "We thought we were dead men. But instead of killing us execution-style, Mister Riddle thought we were  _funny_ and offered us a job."

Tonks was incredibly skeptical. 

"Well, I say 'offered', but really, it was either that or he'd kill me, Fred, and every other Weasley he could track down. There's quite a few of us, so that'd be a mass genocide. Fred and I didn't have time to think it over with a muzzle at our heads, so we agreed, and he's treated us well since. Good pay, insurance - and most importantly, he protects his own."

"What do you even  _do_ for him? Prank his rivals?" 

"Exactly," George beamed. "We've just become a lot more sophisticated, and - honestly - we haven't _hurt_ anyone. Just shook them up a bit, caused a distraction. It's quite fun. Except, see this mark here?" George tilted his head, showing off a large red scar just beneath his ear. "I took a bullet for Tom, once. There was a sniper, and I just so happened to be in the way of his target. It just _barely_ skimmed me, but my scream of pain alerted everyone, and the guy was taken down in seconds. Tom owes me a debt . . . so, if Fred and I ever wanted to get out of this business, I think he'd let us."

". . . You're staying with him. Willingly."

"Willingly," he nodded, grim. "The benefits far out way the - you know, potential for life in jail. But Fred and I, we aren't like them. You get that, right? Gonna put away the knife?" he asked hopefully. 

Eyes narrowed, Tonks reluctantly tucked it out of sight. "So . . . " Fred said nervously. "Now that you know my big bad secret - "

"I could turn you in," she said, but didn't sound all that eager.

"But you won't?" he guessed. "You don't seem the type to give up all that easy. Lay it on me, then. What do you need from me?"

The girl shrugged, giving a smile George found charming, now there wasn't a knife in his face. "I didn't think all that far ahead, to be honest. Well, there is the small matter of your boss shacking my best friend - "

"Right," George grinned. "I saw the little viper earlier. Quite the catch, eh?"

A knife was at his throat before he could blink. "Jesus, I'm kidding! I'm more attracted to the fairer sex, to be honest. I've seen enough of my five brothers' peckers - accidentally, mind - to be satisfied for a lifetime. As for your little buddy, you don't need to worry. Riddle's mad about him. It's sickening, how soft boss man's gotten," he smiled, betraying an inner fondness. "I bet he was thrilled when that model, what's his name, something pretentious - "

"Draco Malfoy," Tonks snickered.

 _"Draco Malfoy,"_ he repeated in a mocking voice. "Was caught with Astoria Greengrass. What a handsome couple. Both pretty and blonde, no? Their kid's gonna be an inbred, I placed  _money_ on that. Anyways, Riddle was in France at the time, and he's been  _itching_ to come home. I'm surprised your boy let Oliver get all handsy. Tom's awfully monogamous., not to mention bloody possessive."

"Oliver?" Tonks asked, confused. "Who?"

"That brunette that's been groping Harry all night. Though, now that I think of it, your kid looked pretty stoned."

_"What?"_

The closet door opened with a slam. 

As she rushed up the steps, intent on murder, George came tumbling after. "Spent more than seven minutes in there, Georgie," someone wolf-whistled. "Surprise you lasted a minute, with  _that_ bod - "

"Shut up, Cormac," George snapped.

"I'm going to kill you!" Tonks screamed, shoving Oliver Wood off her friend. Harry was panting heavily, a bulge showing in his tight leggings. He covered his face, cheeks burning rose.

"What the hell? We were in the  _middle_ of something," Oliver said, his hair disheveled and an embarrassing wet spot in his pants.

_"Something like rape!"_

"He was into it!" Oliver defended.

Tonks growled beneath her breath, and as she reached for her knife, George quickly threw a hand out. "Take your boy," he told her. "I'll deal with Wood. Shove a beer bottle up his arse, maybe," he gave Oliver a warning glance. 

Dora protested, but Harry was nearly catatonic, struggling to sit up. He was shaking violently as he fell into her, eyes fluttering shut. "It was nothing," he told Tonks, unconvincingly. "Leave him alone. I'm - I'm just tired. Let's just go home. Please."

Her gaze softened. "Come on, then," she looped an arm around him, allowing him to lean heavily against her. "You find your lab partner?"

With George and Oliver arguing and the exulted sounds of partying in the distance, they left the house. In the darkness, Tonks looked resplendent, like a pink-haired angel safely ensconcing him in her warm, soft embrace.

"Yeah," he whispered, quiet in the night. "He seemed nice."

"So did the twins," Tonks agreed, frowning. "Just so  _bloody_ nice. I'm suspicious."

The boy laughed, raspy. "You think  _everyone's_ suspicious. Draco, you launched a bloody investigation on when we first started dating. You seem to like Tom just fine, though. Not - not that we're dating," he said, over-defensive, as Tonks helped him onto the bike.

"Even so, he's quite monogomous, you know," Tonks told him wisely, strapping the helmet under his chin. Poor boy needed the protection more than her. If he fell off, at least he wouldn't break his neck. "How do you think he'll react when he learns about  _Oliver_ _?"_

"How do you - " Harry shook his head. "I don't want to know. Come on. Let's go home. Hermione must be worried."

Tonks snorted, placing the key in the ignition. "She can smell weed from a mile off, and I'm not covering your arse as well as mine. I'll drop you off at Tom's."

"Tonks -  _no."_

"I can tell Wood left you unsatisfied," she looked back, glancing incriminatory at his slight hard-on. With the motorbike vibrating beneath him, Harry couldn't help the response. He flushed behind the helmet. "You had enough of that with Malfoy, let Tommy boy take care of you. Tonight, at least."

"I  _don't_ need to be taken care of - " She revved the motor and skidded through Gryffindor's yard, leaving dark tracks in her wake. "Tonks, don't you  _dare,_  you meddling  _witch_ _!"_

 _"Already doing it!"_ she shouted, heading toward the inner city.

* * *

**_To be continued . . ._ **


	4. Chapter 4

**_The Dreadfuls_ **

**TanninTele**

* * *

_Disclaimer: All rights belong to J.K. Rowling, voiding that of original content and characters._

* * *

**IV:**

**_Morning_ **

Tom's fingers were splayed across Harry's scalp, slowly massaging away his comedown headache.

"God, I feel like shite," the boy moaned, burrowing deeper into the bedsheets. Keeping his eyes shut helped to keep out the worse of the headache. Tom's body was refreshingly cool next to him, Harry's head on the man's lean torso. The bed was soft as clouds, and under Tom's ministrations, Harry felt some of the twinges in his head receding. "That's nice, though," he sighed, content.

"I'm glad," Tom said, amused. His voice was deep and rough from sleep, masculine and oh-so-attractive.

God-damnnit. Harry could  _not_ be horny again after the night he had. Reluctantly nudging Tom's hand away, Harry lifted his head, leaning against his hand. His eyes were a dark shade of green, clouded with sleep and arousal. Harry's lips were ridiculously red, Tom noted with pleasure, from their late-night snogging.

But the words that fell from Harry's lips were anything but pleasant. He twitched a finger between them. "This was a one-time thing, you know?"

Tom blinked. "It's been two-times, technically."

"Yeah," Harry yawned, rolling onto his back. Tom immediately missed his warm weight. "That was fluke. You crawled through my window - up a fire-escape, no less - to comfort me over a break up that occurred a month ago. You're lucky you came bearing gifts from  _la France,_ otherwise I'd have called the police."

"I knew you liked _le_ _parfum,"_ Tom said, pleased. He snared one of Harry's wrists, bringing it to his nose. "Beneath the smell of sex and weed, you smell faintly of lilies," he kissed the tender pulse point. "Please don't smoke again. I like you with your wits - and inhibitions - intact. Though you said some very sweet, revealing things last night," Tom teased. "I thought between the two of us, I'd have the worse daddy issues. Though I certainly don't mind you calling me your _daddy_ \- "

Harry stole his hand back, only to smack it against Tom's chest. "I did not!"

The man shrugged. "I suppose you shall never know. _Baby,"_ he crooned. 

Huffing, Harry ignored the growing heat in his chest and soothed his cheek over Tom's stomach. "That still doesn't explain why you waited so long," he said, almost shy.

"I was in Paris," Tom explained, his fingers finding their way to Harry's unruly curls. "News travels slowly when my Death Eaters don't find it . . . relevant."

"Are you calling my ex-boyfriend irrelevant?"

Tom treaded carefully. "Yes?"

"Good."

His plush lips stretched into a smile. "Well, then you'll like this. While in France, I met with an old, wealthy family. The DeLacours," he cleared his throat, as though preparing for a lecture. "Their head of the family is geriatric and ill, and so I met with his granddaughter, Fleur. She's a spitfire. Fiercely intelligent, very beautiful. But there is no attraction there, rest assured, she prefers her own gender," Tom assured Harry, smoothing the boy's hair. "She informed me of her grandfather's black book. He was always very protective of his secrets, almost to the point of paranoia, but Fleur believes in trust amongst allies. A tad foolish, but it turned out favorable in the end."

"Where is this going?" Harry yawned. 

"Hush, dear. I caught a peek of this elusive book, and noticed the name _'Abraxas Malfoy'._ The Malfoy family, it appears, owes quite the debt to the DeLacours," he said slyly. Harry's eyes flew open, and Tom continued idly, as though he hadn't just revealed a major plot twist. "They call themselves old money, but Abraxas was a cheesemaker in France, before he moved to London. Most of their money is the DeLacour's.

". . . Money that was put into your ex's modelling career, and his parent's massive mansion. Not to mention Lucius' magnanimous donations to 'charity' - that is, the London gambling scene - and his veritable zoo of albino peacocks."

Harry remained facing away from Tom, biting his lip, hard. "Draco was always very proud of his heritage," Harry murmured. "This would destroy him. Not to mention his family's already shaky reputation."

Tom agreed. "It's always nice to topple regimes of blue-blooded bigots. And it would secure my alliance with Fleur DeLacour. If you happened to know a good journalist, I wouldn't mind letting you take the lead on this." He pressed his lips to Harry's head. 

"So generous," Harry smiled wryly. "Is it a bad thing I'm considering it? It's so  _mean."_

"I happen to  _like_ your naughty side," Tom mouthed behind Harry's sensitive ear. Arousal flooding them both, Harry - flexible as a wild cat - swung around to straddle Tom's stomach. The cleft of his arse - still sore from the night before - was nestled enticingly against Tom's groin. Large, slender hands automatically rose to cradle Harry's slim, pale hips. His thumbs stroked the smooth skin almost obsessively, hoping this was a precursor to a third-time thing.

Harry smirked down at him. "As for your plan, I'm sure Rita Skeeter is just _dying_  for an inside scoop from Draco Malfoy's scorned, ex-gay lover. His dirty little secret," his smirk faded, and Harry slowly laid down to press himself atop Tom, nose tickling his collarbone.

"I don't know if I'm ready for another relationship like that," he said quietly. "What we have - it's fun, amazing really, but I've known you were dangerous since I was a college freshman, watching in fear and respect as you snagged Dora's wrist as she tried to pick-pocket you at the mall."

Torn with panic, Tonks had dropped Tom's wallet and screamed 'pedophile!', gaining the attention of a nearby mall cop. Tom had talked both Dora and the officer down, offering to buy the two college students lunch in apology for 'scaring' them.

" _I_ barely tolerate her drama. I'm astounded you let her go with barely a vague threat," Harry told him seriously. 

"I was merely enticed by the beautiful, green-eyed boy pleading with his friend to stand down. She was shrieking awfully loud," Tom winced in memory. "Truthfully, I wanted to ask  _you_ out for coffee, but your friend was unfortunate collateral. I suppose she can be pleasant enough company when she's not trying to steal my wallet."

Harry flushed brightly, either at the compliment or in second-hand embarrassment. "Hush, you flatterer."

"You need to learn to accept compliments," Tom told him gently.

"I'm just not used to them, I suppose,"

Tom dragged Harry to his lips. "I can easily fix that, beautiful."

Harry hummed into the kiss, before breaking away. "My mouth likely tastes awful," he said sheepishly. "I don't know how you could stand it last night. Wood's mouth tasted horrid, and he only had a few drags - "

 _"Wood?"_ Tom interupted, eyes flashing. "Who is  _Wood,_  and why would you associate with someone whose name sounds like a dick joke made in poor taste?"

"Oh," Harry cut himself off, rueful. "Um. He's a guy, from the frat party Tonks and I were at. He taught me how to smoke without gagging, and - well - he decided I owed him a favor."

Tom clenched his shoulders, blue eyes burning with urgency. "Harry. This boy - he got you high? And then - what, kissed you? And you said yes?"

"Not really," Harry admitted. "I told him I was with someone - you,  _obviously,"_ he rolled his eyes at Tom's jealous hiss. "But he just wanted to get off - "

"You told him 'no', or implied it, at least? You clearly didn't enjoy it."

"I really didn't," Harry assured him, misreading Tom's anger as directed at him. "It meant absolutely nothing."

Tom stroked a hand down Harry's cheek, before grabbing his chin and yanking him into a possessive kiss. Harry bit out a surprised moan, before tugging away, lips wet with saliva. "Stupid boy," Tom murmured, darkly fond. "He took advantage of you, darling. I wish you'd have told me sooner, before you and I - _made love_ last night."

"That's different! You didn't take advantage. " Harry flustered. "I wanted you to . . . to take care of me."

"That's quite a tall order," Tom muttered. Harry gasped dramatically. "Kidding, of course. You trust me, don't you? Enough to tell me the full name of that boy?"

Harry frowned and tried to pull away from Tom's grasp. "I don't really remember . . . " he said uncertainly. Tom's grip on his chin tightened. "Oliver, I - I think. Oliver Wood. Happy?"

"Immensely," Tom said, urging Harry to lay his head down once more. "I've always taken care of you, Harry," he changed the topic swiftly, smoothly.

"Since I met you, I've kept an eye out for you - _and_ your kin. Don't you think dear Nymphadora would have been carted off by the police by now, if I haven't had my men erase dozens of security footage? Your ex-boyfriend, especially, would've had her arrested, if I hadn't found her little pranks  _immensely_  entertaining. However, I saw her new motorbike last night," he warned Harry. "Grand theft auto is not something to look lightly upon. His licence plate is on the police watchlist, and with her speeding around, she's going to get noticed. Officially, I disapprove of her showing off like that. Unofficially, I'm proud of her. Don't tell her that."

The younger man choked a laugh. "You're not bipolar, are you? One minute, you're  _scarily_ possessive and the next you're cracking jokes."

"I have a wide array of emotions," Tom said in a monotone. He tugged on a lock of Harry's hair. "You'll take care of Rita Skeeter and our little revenge plot, won't you?"

Harry tilted his head upwards, fringe falling away to reveal his jagged scar, remnants from his parents' car accident. "It's not really _revenge_ if it's justified."

"You know what would _really_ be justified?" Tom gestured down Harry's body, lithe and twining about his. The close contact and the mischievous anticipation was slowly arousing them both. "This indicating a third-time thing."

Harry considered him. "Make me breakfast, and we'll see."

* * *

**_Daily Prophet Newsroom_ **

When Harry had dropped onto the coffee table a nine-page copy of what Tom had read in the DeLacour black book, Hermione had given him a withering glare so strong that could shatter glass. It was the weekend by the time Hermione finished proof-reading and fact-checking what she called  _'Project Vindicta',_ red ink smeared plentifully across the pages.

"If you're going to publish this," she told him sternly. "You're going to do it right."

As they stalked threw the halls of the  _Daily Prophet_  newsroom, crowds seem to part in front of them. Hermione, in a pantsuit, put the fear of women into men. Her hair was drawn tightly to her head, the sharp line of her trousers giving her the appearance of height. The goldenrod fabric made the dark pigment of skin even richer. Harry was quite proud of her. 

"Can I help you?" An intern, holding a clipboard in coffee ground-stained hands, stepped up to them. She had hair like Hermione's and a face full of dark freckles, making her appear a love child of Ron and Hermione. And wasn't that an interesting thought. 

"Hermione Granger and my client, Mister Potter," Hermione introduced sharply. "We have an appointment with Rita Skeeter at noon." 

The girl glanced down at her clipboard, her eyes widening. "You're early! Yes, Ms. Skeeter has been very excited to meet with you," she babbled, gesturing them deeper into the building. "I'm Romilda Vane, her personal assistant. Coffee-fetcher, grammar-checker, occasional dry-cleaner, whatever Ms. Skeeter requires. She told me you were an honored guest, Mister Potter, and we were to maintain the utmost discretion of your interview," she ended in a hush. "Ms. Skeeter protects her sources and the  _Daily Prophet_ takes their journalistic integrity  _very seriously,"_ Romilda finished with not an ounce of pretending. 

Hermione and Harry shared a dubious glance. "Is Ms. Skeeter available now?" 

"Hm, she should be finishing her lunch," Romilda checked her watch. "Meanwhile, can I offer anything? Coffee, fruit, crackers? We have some wine coolers, as well." 

The two tentatively sat at a pair of acid green leather chairs tucked into a corner. Strewn across the coffee table were copies of famous  _Daily Prophets;_ Harry snagged one on the theft of a famous painting, the Fat Lady. It had gone mysteriously missing from it's place in a millionaire's home, with not a trace of evidence left behind. Odd. The theft had been around the time Tom bought his Jaguar. Harry slowly set down the paper as Romilda returned with a glass of wine for Hermione. The deep red color stained Hermione's lips, giving the appearance of a brutal cannibalism. 

All that time around Tom was giving Harry some awfully dark thoughts.

"Are you sure you want to do this?" Hermione asked in a soft tone, keeping an eye on the nosy journalists that bustled around them. The newsroom was laid out like a commune, with cubicles against the wall and large tables open for meetings and presentations. Clippings of paper and photos were strung from a large bulletin with thumbtacks, and a red pen was always close at hand. Computer cords were haphazardly draped across the floor, and Harry wondered who would scream if he unplugged one from the wall.  

He swiped a dark curl from his eyes, taking in a deep breath. "I'm doing this for Tom. Not for me," he reminded her. 

Hermione took a long, slow sip of her drink, eyeing him. When she spoke, her voice was saccharine, dark, almost mocking. "Now we both know that's not true." 

"Ms Skeeter is ready for you!" Romilda appeared conveniently from around a corner, practically skipping. "This way, Mr. Potter," she gestured him along, and Hermione lingered to finish her drink. 

"Liquid luck," she told him. Harry rolled his eyes. 

Soon, they reached an all-glass room, the shades drawn and the sound of piano drifting through the slightly opened door. "Ms. Skeeter has a process," Romilda told them seriously. "She requires a meal of tofu, lettuce and tomato on rye bread, and Beethoven for digestion. Mozart, Sonata 11 is for writing," she added. "Upbeat and exciting, the exact way she wants to come off to her readers. It's effective. Also, for luck, we have to knock thrice before being called in." 

Tucking her clipboard under an arm, Romilda rapped three times in quick succession. The music cut off abruptly, and they heard the frantic scuffling of wrappers crinkling and food being chewed. 

As they waited patiently, Romilda seemed to bounce on her heels. "Would you - I'm not really supposed to ask this, but would you want to go for coffee, later?" the girl asked, peering up at Harry with determined, bright eyes. 

Hermione swallowed a laugh and nudged Harry, who had gone still. When the boy stammered out a vague rejection, and Romilda appeared ready to convince him, Hermione spoke up. "He's gay, honey." 

" _So_ gay," Harry choked out. 

Romilda's flicked a curl out of her face, giving a cool, confident smile. "I can change that."  

"You may come in!" Rita called imperiously, thankfully saving them. 

Hermione escorted Harry by the elbow into Rita's office before he could make a fool of himself. As the door shut behind them, Romilda twiddled her fingers coyly. 

Rita was behind her desk, the room decorated in shades of green and red, like Christmas come early. The woman was in a garish polka-dotted dress, her hair perfectly curled and a pair of horn-rimmed glasses teetering on her nose. "Harry Potter!" with a long nail, she flicked the remainder of her lunch wrapping into a rubbish bin. Standing tall on four-inch heels, the woman rushed forward to greet them. 

"It's delightful to  _finally_ meet you, darling," Rita crooned, before offering a long-taloned hand. Harry shook it idly, wondering where she got her nails done. "I hope Romilda treated you well, yes?" 

"Yes, very well," Hermione sent Harry an amused grin.

Rita blinked, as if finally noticing the other woman. ". . . and you are?"

Hermione's grin faded to a professional blank slate. "I'm Hermione Granger, Harry's publicist."

Rita didn't offer a hand. "Of course," she said coolly, returning to her desk. She gestured to the adjacent chair, and Harry sat, leaving Hermione to hover awkwardly behind him. With the pad of her finger, Rita fixed her lipstick in the reflection of her computer screen. The woman didn't appear all that old, with natural, strawberry blonde curls and a reasonably perky bosom, but her smile seemed false, stretched.  _'Botox',_ Hermione mouthed.

"Let's see. How did you want to spin this, Harry?  _Scorned ex-lover of Draco Malfoy tells all!"_  She splayed her fingers. "Or, or -!  _Draco Malfoy: Abusive, Cheating and Secretly Ugly?_ How is that?"

"Abusive?" Harry frowned. "That's a bit blown out of proportion, don't you think?" 

"I'm just expounding on what everyone will already  _think,"_ Rita elaborated. "From the pictures your friend  _'MalfoyIsAManWhore69@tempmail.com'_  sent me," she clicked a link on her computer, displaying a poorly-lit image of Harry, asleep on the couch. The picture was taken a month ago by Tonks, clearly prepared if Harry decided to raise charges.  

A dark bruise was growing beneath his eye, seeming vibrant against his pale, tear-streaked skin. Harry winced at how ridiculously  _pitiful_ he looked. Not to mention, the summery blouse he wore was incredibly wrinkled.

". . . little Draco gives quite the punch," Rita said idly, watching him for a reaction. 

"He threw a blow dryer at me," Harry explained, almost shameful. "But that's  _not_ what I'm here to talk about." 

The journalist sat up, eyes lit with excitement. "I always knew dear Draco was holding more secrets to his gorgeously chiseled chest than just a vague attraction to his co-star," Rita's red lips stuck out in a pout. "If his infidelity is what you're wanting to rant about, that's  _old_ news, darling. Their chemistry has been drastically over-publicized, and that little  _indiscretion_  was practically  _predictable_ by the time news of Astoria's pregnancy came out, _"_ she tapped her pen incessantly against her desk, heaving a worn-out sigh. It must be horribly taxing, spinning out lies and histrionics about celebrities each and every day. Hermione stared at her in barely concealed derision. 

"Indiscretion," Harry repeated, quietly enunciating the word. "Exactly," he sat up. "You already know  _all_ about Astoria and Draco's relationship. But how much do you know about the  _Malfoys_ themselves?" 

"Oh - quite a lot, I'd think," Rita scooted forward, a conspiratorial smirk on her lips. "I've been investigating them for months now, just  _waiting_ for one of them to slip up. I have quite the vendetta against Lucius Malfoy and his lawyer, Burke; he's sued our paper so many times, I'm surprised we're still in business. And, of course, he pays off our best sources to keep them quiet," Rita shook her head. 

" _'Investigating'_ ," Hermione said dubiously. "What do you mean by that?" 

Rita shrugged a bony shoulder. "Oh, nothing  _illegal,_ rest assured," she sniffed. "But I do have a few illicit photos of Narcissa Malfoy  _in flagrante delicto_ with Serena Zabini." 

"The 'Black Widow'?" Harry asked, disbelieving. 

"Yes, the Italian debutante  _tragically_ widowed seven times," Rita nodded. "I've overheard a few conversations with Narcissa and a man I've deduced is her divorce lawyer. Seems Zabini isn't afraid of seducing men,  _or_ women to finance her Italian fashion label."   

Harry looked at Hermione in amazement. "Or - " the girl said pointedly. "Serena and Narcissa could genuinely be in love." 

Rita dismissed the notion. 

Although Harry didn't condone infidelity after the hellfire that was his last relationship, he couldn't blame Narcissa. Lucius had been a cruel man with very stringent views on everything from religion to marriage. Narcissa, unlike Lucius, had been nothing but accepting of Draco's 'proclivities', and had welcomed Harry with open arms. They had bonded over their love for fashion, and Narcissa given Harry numerous contacts in the fashion industry that would help launch a career after college.

"What we have for you, I think, is quite a bit worse than 'trouble in paradise'," Harry nodded at Hermione. With a serious expression, she removed the thick packet of papers from her purse. "I don't want to dredge up a scandal - " Harry said, and Hermione snorted behind him. "But the Malfoy family is in some _very_ deep trouble." 

* * *

**_MALFOY INHERITANCE A SCAM?_ **

_by Rita Skeeter_

**_Our deeply undercover sources have discovered some potentially damaging information on the supposed_ 'vieux riche' _Malfoy family. Coming - not from the upper crusts of French society - the Malfoys were originally_ fromagers, _that is, cheese makers._**

**_In the 1930s, the late Abraxas Malfoy had been accused of selling contaminated cheeses, and laughed out of his small hometown nestled in the Pyrennes. Desperate for money, Malfoy turned to the generous DeLacour family for numerous loan, before ditching France for the London scene._ **

**_Lucius Malfoy, famed philanthropist and father of Astoria Greengrass' baby daddy, Draco Malfoy, refuses to comment on the alleged unpaid loans and taxes that have carried on from his father's debt._ **

**_This source comes directly from an individual close to the Malfoys. He claims that the Malfoys_ "May not have been aware of their grandfather's debts, but reckless spending and flamboyant lifestyle choices have done more damage than Abraxas ever caused."   _He calls Narcissa Malfoy_ nee  _Black an unfortunate bystander to the Malfoy's downfall, and states,_ "Though she may have had a hand in raising a spoiled, childish, irresponsible brat of a son, she has always been kind to me. Any backlash from this allegation, and any that follow, should respect her privacy as she - hopefully - attempts to separate from her husband." **

* * *

**_To be continued . .  ._ **


	5. Chapter 5

**_The Dreadfuls_ **

**TanninTele**

* * *

_Disclaimer: All rights belong to J.K. Rowling, voiding that of original content and characters._

* * *

**V:**

**_Forest of Dean, England_ **

Humming a hearty little tone as he hiked up the trail, Oliver Wood absentmindedly stepped over a thick brown limb that lay on the forest floor, muddied boots crinkling the dry grass. There was a slight chill in the air, the wind making the towering trees wave and shed their golden leaves. Oliver's breathing was harsh and deep, his muscles tense from the effort of the hike.

If his ex-boyfriend, Marcus was here, he'd likely be forging ahead, wearing dirt and bugs like battle-armor. Oliver had loved his boyfriend, rough edges and all. Marcus had encouraged Oliver's love for surviving in the wilderness. Marcus could appreciate the thrill of the hunt, the allure of a softly humming forest, alive and free.

God, he missed Marcus. Oliver blinked rapidly and stared upwards.

The trees above him seemed monstrous, and he felt so minuscule, exploring only a smidgen of all there is to see. As he tracked a turkey vulture glide overhead, Oliver spotted a strange red kerchief fluttering in the wind. It was dirty and tattered, not far from the path, and Oliver had a feeling it was placed there for a reason. It was attached to a tree, just out of reach - Oliver craned his neck and found another, placed several paces away, leading deeper into the woods.

He began to follow them, slowly, keeping track of landmarks so he'd know how to get back.

In his distraction, Oliver's foot fell into a burrow. His ankle twisted beneath him, and Oliver tripped forward. He maneuvered his body so his pack took the brunt of it, though he still grunted upon impact. "Shit," he muttered, blinking up at the clouds. Slightly dazed, he thought of his mother.

On lazy Summer days, when he was young and she, a single mother, they would lie in the back gardens after breakfast and just watch the clouds. He would find images in them - animals, shoes, people - and test if he could split them in half by sheer force of will.

Licking his parched lips, Oliver pulled himself up, ankle twinging slightly. He wiggled it, wincing. It didn't seem broken, nor sprained - but it still fucking hurt. Oliver twisted off the cap of his water bottle, frowning in confusion - there was a crack in the bottom, and the plastic was slowly leaking. The net of his pack's side pocket was soaked in the tepid liquid. It must've cracked when he fell.

"Shit," he said again, louder this time.

The water was supposed to last a lot longer. He had packed iodine and a pot for decontaminating the stream water, but going off the path meant he had no idea where the river was. Taking a labored breath, Oliver pushed himself to unsteady feet. Tenderly, he set his foot to the ground and shifted his weight around, finding kinesthesia. The cool autumn air caressed his skin, making his long blonde hair fly behind him. Leaves crunched beneath his boots as Oliver visibly favored his right side.

He wondered if the red flags were worth it. Clearly, they led somewhere, but the forest floor was messy and hazardous - Oliver looked around, frowning. He was further from the path than he thought. He turned in a circle, placing a hand against a tree to brace himself.

"Fuck."

He was lost. But the next flag wasn't far, and they had to lead somewhere. Maybe to a river, or to a firewatch station - someplace where he could rest his foot. Limping slightly, Oliver hiked up his pack and walked, following the little red flags like they were Will 'o the Wisps.

Eventually, he came across a cave.

Something felt wrong. The forest here was quiet, with only the wind whistling in his ears. An orange bag was sitting in the grass, next to the remnants of a campfire, and the carcass of a rabbit, half the meat torn from it's bones.

Biting his lip, Oliver pulled out his phone and flicked on the flashlight. There was no service all the way out here, and he'd avoided using his phone thus far, meaning the battery was only at 85%. He limped to the cave entrance.

"Hello?"

His voice echoed through the cavern. There was nothing - nothing, except for his own laboured breathing. He stepped forward, almost gagging at the stench. There were signs of life outside, but it smelt like death in here. Pressing a hand into the wet cave wall to steady himself, Oliver flinched as he heard something rustle, like cloth or wings. His first thought was bats! - and he lifted the flashlight upwards. A blackened, rotting corpse stared eyelessly at him, mouth open in a perpetual scream.

Amber eyes glistened in the darkness as a muscled arm snuck around Oliver's throat.

"You found my little friends," Fenrir Greyback, part-time paid assassin, full-time hunter, whispered from the darkness. "Silly little lion cub fell into my trap."

Oliver's last thought was, ironically;

Marcus is going to kill me for going off the path.

It wasn't Marcus that killed him.

* * *

"Pardon me for saying it," Ron Weasley's voice broke through Harry's quiet contemplation. "But you look like you've gone through the mill. Is that . . . a hickey?"

Harry flushed, dragging up his scarf. Technically, it was Tom's scarf; soft and green, from Tom's school days. Apparently, it matched his eyes. Harry had coordinated the rest of his outfit to match, his shoes silver-tipped and his black jeans embroidered with ivy leaves.

Their relationship - if you could call revenge plots and the occasional hook-up that - was going quite well. After the  _Daily Prophet, Evening Edition_ had hit the shelves yesterday afternoon, Tom had taken Harry to eat in celebration. Their conversation had began innocently enough, but Tom's long fingers wrapped around his wine stem and Harry performing a veritable fellatio on his soup spoon had Tom quickly asking for the bill. They'd taken a taxi to Tom's apartment, and all-too-soon, Harry had his back against the front door, his legs around Tom's hips and their dress shirts hitting the carpet.

Tom really,  _really_ liked to use his teeth.

Harry coughed, sitting down across from Ron. They were in the library, a soft murmur of conversation filling the air, a familiar location for midday-studying. Hermione was stationed at the front desk, and Harry's gaze drifted to the corkboard behind her. An image of Oliver Wood smirked coyly at him beneath the broad letters  _MISSING_ **.** He shook his head, trying not to think of it.

Ron had begun working, a vanilla folder of photographs and files open on the table. He had pushed the gruesome crime scene photos far, far away from him. Harry caught a glimpse of them. 

"Could be worse," Harry stared down at the picture of some nameless, faceless victim dangling by his feet like a stalactite, dull brown hair swaying in the air. "I could be dead." The body's features had been torn away, mauled and made faceless. Were those -  _bite marks?_

"A lot worse," Ron, looking ill, handed him an upside down, laminated photo of seven leathery corpses strung upside down, eye sockets eerily hollow. They had decayed at a rapid rate, encouraged by the wet and humid cave temperature.

As a 'team-building exercise', the two had been assigned a recent, unsolved case. They were given a description of the victims and their background information to comb through, to find a connection.

"God, I hate this class. This is so  _gross._ " Ron said.

Harry shook his head, dragging out the official dossier. "Shall we begin? Meet John Doe, most recent victim of notorious killer known only as 'The Grey Wolf'. He was found by an anonymous tip, seventy-two hours later, and a search party was sent to comb the 4,000 acre forest - " 

Ron was fast becoming bored. "I don't want to hear about the landscaping, let's get to the good stuff. You don't need to read it word for word." He plucked the papers away and skimmed it quickly. "So, the guy was found 'off the beaten path' in a bat cave, strung up and bled to death." 

"That seventy-two hour wait was what killed Doe, actually," Harry said, peering at the attached photograph. "His face was the only thing . . . _damaged -_ in fact, he was the only one unidentified. Three days without water, in shock, and strung upside down like a slab of meat at the butcher's was what did him in. I wonder if the anonymous tip was  _intentionally_ placed three days too late," he said quietly, almost to himself. 

"Not like meat," Ron contested. "Like a bat. Some kind of fucked-up, reverse Batman. In which Batman loses every time."

Harry raised a brow. "You're comparing these - er -  _bats_  to a fictional, cape-wearing vigilante?"

"Only in the broadest sense," Ron explained. "I mean, look at this one - she was identified awfully quick, from her - uh, distinctive features." A nice way of saying 'even in death, she resembles a toad'. "Dolores Umbridge. Rich. Influential. Real estate mogul, and apparently quite generous. Her last act of charity was donating a ping pong table to a homeless shelter. _Just_ the table." The two shared a disbelieving look. "She can't be _that_ ignorant."

Harry splayed out the other six victims. "Look at the others. A doctor. A lobbyist. A councilman. All well-off and fancy themselves philanthropists, while in fact . . . they were all involved in some sort of shady business. They were brought to court for misconduct at some point, but got off with their reputations unscathed."

Ron flipped through the research, frowning deeply. "Dolores Umbridge was suspected of practicing redlining - a sort of housing segregation. She would sell Latinx and African Americans shitty tenements for far more than they were worth, and refused to sell them homes in all-white communities," he snorted in derision. "She was sued for it in 1999, and reportedly stated that it was an 'old tradition' to keep - God, this is bad - ' _to keep certain communities separate'_. What a bitch. This is getting awfully  _Native Son._ "

Harry continued immediately, a train of unstoppable thought. "They were blinded, their eyes gauged out. Made to be willfully ignorant, and forced to live in perpetual darkness. These people gave away their money to feel better about themselves, and their arms were wrapped around their torsos, as if in self-comfort."

"It's a metaphor," Ron whispered dramatically. Lifting up a pen, he asked the million-dollar question. "So who's the bad guy here? The killer? Or these assholes?"

"Neither. That's the point.  It's all about perception. The killer thinks himself a vigilante, doing good for the wrong reasons. By hanging them upside down, blinding them,  _humiliating_ them, he was declaring them as what they were; frauds. Ignorant, selfish beings, comforting only themselves."

Ron tapped the pen against his chin. "So . . . he's a hunter, thinning the population, eliminating the weak."

"Although some might criticize hunters for hurting innocent creatures, these 'victims' are anything but." Harry said darkly. These crass insight were not atypical for Harry. He tended to dissociate when faced with the macabre. It made him an effective analyst, but probably wasn't good for the psyche. Ron was more prone to crack jokes and bicker whenever things got too dark, bringing levity to otherwise uncomfortable scenarios. Ron stared at him for a moment, bemused. Harry bit his lip, wondering if he'd scared Ron off.

The redhead gave him a lazy little smile. "I'll believe it. Everyone's at fault," he shrugged. He had Harry repeat his analysis, inscribing it in scrawling, boyish handwriting. "That was easy. We should've done this partner thing more often, Harry."

Harry sent him a playful glare. "Who's fault was that, hmm?" He began collecting his things, tucking them into his book-bag. "Regardless, Professor McGonagall doesn't mind you skipping class, so long as you make up on all the work you've missed, and continue working with me on these group classes."

Flushing, Ron shifted in his seat. "I've been keeping up with the online assignments," he defended. "I just - I can't handle anything  _bloody._ My brothers - Fred and George, you've met them - they used to pull pranks on me all the time as a child. They'd wear zombie makeup and creep outside my window, they'd fake their deaths with rubber knives and spill fake guts all over the kitchen floor, " Ron shuddered. "Once, they filled a pickle with fake blood, and I was  _terrified_ that I'd broken a tooth. We were pretty poor, and my parents didn't have dental plans, so I was more worried about _their_ reactions than my own health. I won't even  _mention_ the spiders and snakes they'd leave in my bed-sheets."

Harry was biting back laughter, covering his mouth. "Why'd you join criminology if you're squeamish?"

A freckled shoulder lifted. "I convinced myself not to be a wimp. My oldest brother, Bill, works as a security guard for some bank, Charlie is a biologist and Percy's studying to be a lawyer. I suppose I wanted a job where I could make a  _difference_. I hoped police work was it. Unfortunately, our first day of class, McGonagall brought in a severed arm and had us - "

"Analyze the bruise patterns, yeah," Harry said. "They were defensive."

"I suppose she thought it'd be a good first lesson, an 'attention grabber', but I had to leave half-way to vomit in the restroom. I stuck it out for a few more weeks, but I'm clearly not made for this stuff," Ron lifted the corner of a picture, peeking at it, before shuddering violently.

"You're very good at . . . erm, tactics," Harry told him. "You're a problem-solver. So what if law enforcement isn't your thing?"

"Tactics," Ron said glumly. "What does that even mean?"

"Planning stuff, I think."

"Yeah, with seven kids in the family, mum always needed help planning meals and vacations, but we had to work around surprises and uh - spontaneous blacklisting from facilities. The twins caused a lot of trouble. But I don't  _want_ to work at a travel agency or as an actuary or something."

Harry was quiet for a moment, running a finger down his lip. "You could work for the community," he offered. "You  _said_ you wanted to make a difference, didn't you? As a social worker, or program director for a homeless center, you could help people who come from families like yours. Full of love, but down on their luck. Help them get back on their feet and plan for the future. You might hear some tragic stories, but that's what criminology will prepare you for, yeah?"

Brown eyes slowly back to gleam with hope. "Well, if I  _do_ become a social worker, I'll always have someone in the police force to help out," he poked Harry in the arm.

"Oh, I'm not becoming a police officer. I'm majoring in fashion design," he raised a manicured hand. "Don't try to talk me out of it, I've already made up my mind."

Ron blinked. "I'm not going to talk you out of it. I can't really judge, can I? Anyways, you've always seemed - fashionable. When I saw you at the party, in - what was it - black leggings and a silk shirt, my first thought was 'this kid doesn't belong here. He belongs in some posh apartment with a rich boyfriend and a pampered corgi.'"

Harry barked out a laugh, giggling madly when someone shushed him. "It was a brocade shirt, but you're not wrong. Been there, done that. No corgi, but my last boyfriend was a model, and - well - he wasn't a model _boyfriend_ , let's say," He said wryly, picking at the papers in front of him. "He cheated on me, with a woman who's pregnant, and guess who the father is?" 

Ron snorted. "Hey, my taste in women isn't all that great either. After the party, Parvati finally confessed her deep love for Lavender, and I was dropped so fast I think I broke something."

"Your heart, I surely hope not?" 

"Something like that," he said glumly.

Standing, Harry patted his shoulder. "Cheer up, mate. You'll find someone. Meanwhile, the librarian's assistant," Harry nodded toward Hermione, who was dutifully shelving books. "Has been looking over at us this whole time. I know it isn't  _me_  she's checking out, because I'm so flaming I'm a fire hazard," Harry sniffed primly, looking down at his nails, wiping away a spot of ink. In fact, Hermione _had_ been watching them, largely because Harry had an high-pitched laugh and didn't understand social cues to  _shush._ The white lie came all too easy, but to Harry's luck, Ron seemed interested. "Has she?" Ron asked, eyes roaming down Hermione's back. He flushed as she turned suddenly, the top button of her uniform open, revealing smooth, dark skin.

"Go talk to her," Harry urged. "Ask for resources on social work. Ask good questions, build a rapport, show you're serious. She's very professional and won't react well to flirting on the job. When her shift's over, ask her on a date to see a - a documentary, or visit a museum. Do  _not_ take her anyplace with meat. She's vegetarian. Do that, and you'll do great."

"You think so?" Ron repeated absently. "Wait, how do you know?"

Harry had already begun to leave, flinging the bag over his shoulder and sending Ron a salute. "I just do.  _Go._ Good luck."

Shaking his head in vague amusement, Harry stepped out into the street. The air was faintly chill, and he was glad for Tom's scarf. Taking a deep breath, he stepped forward to hail a cab, but a glossy black car backed out of the parking lot and sidled in front of him. Startled, Harry stumbled a step back and watched as his startled reflection in the car's tinted window slowly rolled down.

"Harry," a familiar voice breathed out.

* * *

**_To be continued . . ._ **


	6. Chapter 6

**_The Dreadfuls_ **

**TanninTele**

* * *

_Disclaimer: All rights belong to J.K. Rowling, voiding that of original content and characters._

* * *

**VI:**

Draco, with hair a sheen of obnoxious bottle-blonde and grey-blue eyes pooling with darkness, smiled tentatively at him. "I've been waiting for you. Where are you headed? Ernest can give us a ride," he nodded at the elderly driver, who gave Harry a sheepish wave. Harry, bewildered, stood very still as the door swung open.

Draco scooted back, giving him room on the leather seat.

 _This is a bad idea,_ Harry thought, even as he slid in. The voices of Hermione and Tonks screaming at him to make a tactical retreat were muddled by Draco's disarming, runway grin. _Goddamnit_ , his ex was handsome. With his mother's sharp features and his father's broad-shouldered, tall build, Draco had been primed since birth to use his beauty for evil.

When they first met, Draco had been hired to model for Harry's freshman design course's winter showcase.

Draco, with his fair complexion and dove-grey eyes had looked resplendent in warm, grey pants and a Russian Cossacks hat. Harry, inspired by the model's eyes, had hand-stitched a bluebell flower into the collar of a lightweight wrap coat. The coat had been deceptively warm, and Draco had bought the coat himself after strutting it down a spotlight-lit runway.

Harry, fresh from living with the Dursleys, was endlessly grateful for his art scholarship but still deeply unsure of his talent. When they first met, he had been too shy to look this beautiful person in the eyes. It was nothing less of a miracle that Draco liked him. 

Harry had more than a bit of trouble meeting those eyes now. 

Ernest began the car and drove a block before either spoke. It seemed the man had been directed to go 'round in circles until Draco got what he wanted.

" - looking good, Harry." He was saying. "Did you get a haircut? That scarf really brings out your - "

"Why are you here?" Harry broke, his hands clenched in his lap.

Draco's mouth shut with an audible  _click,_ and he looked sheepish. "It's been a month since our fight, and I was hoping you'd be willing to talk," he shifted in his seat, and gave an uncomfortable laugh. "I can barely remember what we had even fought about."

"I do," Harry said quietly. "You hadn't been doing chores, because you claimed it would damage your nails,"

"I had just gotten them done with clear polish, for a photoshoot" Draco defended. "You paint your nails all the time."

"Oh, so you  _do_ remember?" Harry arched a brow.

"I remember that shoot," he explained. "It was for  _Tank's_  spring patterns spread. I wore plaid with floral, horrendous for my complexion - " 

Has Draco  _always_ talked like this?

Harry weathered on, tactfully ignoring him. "- after which you threw a hairdryer at my head, left to get drunk, and fell into the arms of your co-star; a highly televised event, by the way. You're lucky the public didn't have confirmation we were together, otherwise you'd have been labelled not just a baby daddy but also a cheating piece of  _shite,"_ he ended on a sharp note. "It is your kid, isn't it? How did  _that_ even happen?"

Draco winced, glanced toward the car's partition and jerked it down. Ernest, though subtle, had been glancing back at them through the rearview mirror with a stricken look.

"It was at that cast party."

Harry's eyes narrowed. "The one I couldn't attend with you because I had a late class?"

"Yes. It - It was a mistake. I was drunk, and alone, and she started flirting with me because she thought I was single . . . And I woke up in my hotel room with her panties on the floor and the shower running," he explained hurriedly. "I came home and pretended it never happened. I didn't remember much, anyways, so that was easy."

Harry remained silent, his eyelashes lowered, hiding his emotions.

"But that was months ago. I swear, I didn't cheat again. Except . . . "

" _Except?"_ Harry urged. 

"Well, a - after our fight, I felt like shite. I went to a bar in the city, and happened to run into Astoria being ambushed by paparazzi. I helped her sneak away, and we ended up back at her place," he rubbed the back of his head. "I thought you and I were destined to break up, and she was there, looking so beautiful - I didn't know the paparazzi had followed us, until my publicist called the next morning and told me I was all over the news.  _Astoria Greengrass' New, Handsome Beau? Co-Star Draco Malfoy Inspires Chemistry On and Off Television,"_ he quoted some of the headlines. "I admit, she's far more famous than I, so of course it was big news. I couldn't face you, and within a week you moved back with your friends. I thought that was the end of it," he mumbled. "Then, suddenly there were rumors that Astoria's pregnant."

"Is it true?" Harry asked suddenly. "Is it yours?"

"The timeline matches up," Draco admitted. "I never thought it would end up this way. Father wants me to marry Astoria. No Malfoy will be a bastard, and with all that news of grandfather and the DeLacours, an engagement will be _'lucrative for our image,'_ " he quoted wryly.

"Oh," Harry said, muted. He drew his knees up and looked out the window. They were driving past a deli shop, and Harry realized how hungry he was. "Why are you telling me this?"

Draco took in a deep breath. Harry felt a light touch on his hand, and let it stay. It was better to ignore him than show how  _pissed_ Harry was. Passive aggressiveness always irked Draco in the past, and Harry hoped Draco would drop his calm, contrite act and get to the point.

Draco seemed to take his non-response as a go-ahead. "Marry me, Harry," he said quietly.

 _That_. That was harder to ignore.

"What?"

"Marry me," he repeated, unbuckling to grab both Harry's hands.

Harry attempted weakly to tug them away. "Are you attempting to propose to me in the back of your dad's car?" He asked in disbelief. "Let me rephrase,  _you're proposing?_ To  _me?_ I think you should be quite content in the fact that I'm neither blonde, a celebrity, or the pregnant woman your father is insisting you marry."

"I'm sure," Draco said confidently. "I don't have a ring at the moment, as I didn't know your dimensions, but - "

"Wait, no. Stop," Harry shook him off. "I'm not marrying you."

Heaving a loud, hard breath, Draco sat taller. "I'll give it to you straight. If I'm not otherwise engaged, father will make me marry her. She's  _intolerable_  while pregnant, always wanting me to fetch pickles and peanut butter - "

"You seemed to tolerate her enough in the time it took to knock her up."

" - And she was _so_ angry with me when I told her I was dating someone." 

 _For good reason,_ Harry thought vehemently. 

Draco met his eyes. "Marry me. Please."

Harry glared, the slits of green vibrant in the dim far light. "This is horrifically unromantic. Not to mention, it's 2001. Gay marriage isn't legal. _Anywhere_."

"Oh," Draco said dully, licking his lips. "I heard Germany passed a legislation - you know what, it doesn't matter. I just - I want you to be my everything. My  _only_  everything . . . I made a mistake five months ago."

"And again, a month ago," Harry interrupted, voice tight as he fought back the lump in his throat. "How can I possibly trust that you were with her only the twice? Or that you won't cheat again, on another gorgeous model, or Astoria once she's lost the baby weight and bats her pretty lashes at you? I don't hate the woman, I just hate that she makes you unfaithful, and your only excuse is that she _'was looking so beautiful'_ ".

"I've changed," the man said earnestly, wiping a strand of hair from his eyes. "Impending fatherhood scares the  _shit_  out of me, and I want - I  _need_  somebody by my side to support me emotionally. You're the kindest, most level-headed person I know. You're a beautiful person inside and out, and this last month without you in my life has made me realize that." Draco swallowed, and tried to meet Harry's eyes. "When the baby comes, we can have joint custody of the child - and - and - " he was becoming flustered. "I know you've always wanted a family."

Lips parting, Harry shook his head. "I- I'm still in college, Draco."

"You have a year and a half to graduate. Or you can drop out. My career is enough to take care of both of us."

"I'm _not_ becoming your trophy wife. And a child?  _No._ Even if he's the sweetest, most beautiful creature in the world, I would always be reminded of the way you betrayed me. Your fear of settling down with a woman is  _not_  a good basis for marriage, Draco," Harry began to lecture, channeling Hermione's unfailing logic and passivity in the face of -

Lurching forward to shut him up, Draco's lips met Harry's. They were wet. And tasted like an abundance of lip balm. Had Draco  _planned_ for this? Draco wrapped his hand around Harry's waist, fingers like brands, burning into his skin. As Harry pushed against Draco's chest, making a disgusted, disgruntled noise -  _he kissed like Oliver Wood, sloppy and violent, almost drunken -_ Draco bit down. Harry yelped, yanking away, and they both tasted blood.

"What the  _fuck?"_ Harry brought his fingers to his bottom lip, and it came away red. He spoke loudly, so the driver could hear. "Take me back to the library.  _Now._  And _never_ talk to me again," he said, voice raspy and enraged.

"But - "

"No," Harry spat. "I'm _tired_ of being disrespected. Don't pretend you love me, telling me you've changed, when you clearly love yourself more. You're not  _that_ good an actor. If you loved me, you wouldn't have kept your cheating a secret, and you certainly never would have gone back to her. This -  _farce_  - " he gestured around. "Of a proposal has just convinced me how childish you are. And I'm  _younger_ than you! By  _years!_ Don't pretend to still be in your early twenties when I've seen your shelves of wrinkle reducers and hair-dye," he hissed, pleased by Draco's indignant flush. "Please, Draco, don't kid yourself any longer. You aren't nearly as amazing as you think. Your inheritance is a scam, your dad is a bigoted gambling addict, and your mum is cheating on him with a woman."  _You must get that from her,_ he fought adding. 

"You're - you're lying," Draco whispered. "I never though you'd stoop so low - "

"No. I know all this for a  _fact_ because I was Rita's 'inside source', and she's been spying on your family for  _months,_ just _waiting_ for a scoop like me to come along."

Draco gaped at him, betrayed. "That _was_ you _._ I thought it was your friend, Tonks; she's been harassing me, you know? She's worse than the paparazzi. Could you, you know, call off your bitch? With my bike gone and my family's source of money being questioned, all I have left is father's car," Draco gestured around, looking despondent.

_Good._

"Good!" Harry echoed his thoughts. "Why on earth would I call her off? It's not like you're undeserving of it. I'm _pissed_  that I showed restraint with Rita, because your future lovers  _deserve_  to know what an absolute  _cunt_ you are. Not to mention how small of a penis you actually have." Draco sucked in a breath, insulted. "I can't  _believe_ I was so unlucky to have you as my first. It's taken me  _so long_  to learn what good sex feels like, which - so you know - I'm getting regularly. Yeah," Harry nodded at the man's incredulous look. "And he can actually  _reach_ my prostate. I'm surprised your pecker managed to knock Astoria up with your low sperm count. It's hereditary, I know, which is why you're an only child. Thank _fuck_ for that." His words were horrifically crass, but, well, Harry was  _pissed._

"Better hope the child takes after Astoria in looks, because in a few years, with your fear of excersizing and _all_ that bleach causing permanent hair loss, you'll only be useful as a hand model. Though I suppose your hand will be getting a good workout from now on, seeing as you've been rejected by both your ex  _and_ the woman carrying your child."

Harry panted, and smiled serenely as Ernest pulled back up to the library.

"Fair warning, I have video proof of your shortcomings." _Literally_. "That half-arsed porn you tried to make, with me in Tonks' schoolgirl skirt and you dressed as a construction worker with your 'drill'? I'm unashamed of my cross-dressing, and Tonks has unlimited access to your Wikipedia page. Contact me again, and I won't stop her from leaking it," Harry took a step out of the car. "Oh. And congratulations. You'll make a great absent father."

He slammed the door behind him.

With his back turned away from the car, he heard the front window roll down and tensed, fearing the worse. "Good job, lad," Ernest whispered furtively, wrinkled face smiling. "Spoiled brat deserved a talking down. He and that girl have used my car as a humping ground far more than he's let on, not to mention me dropping him off at hers." Harry twitched in annoyance. "You deserve better," the man told him solemnly.

"Ernest!" Draco shouted from the back, hitting the partition. "Don't  _talk_ to him, you old coot! Bring me to the grocers, I have to get pickles for that bitch," he murmured, clearly annoyed.

Ernest smiled tightly. "It was a pleasure to know you, lad. By the way, you're bleeding - quite profusely, I might add," he stared at Harry's throbbing bottom lip.

Harry wiped it away with a grimace. "Best of luck," he murmured back as the window rolled up and the car drove off.

The shades had been drawn on the library windows. Harry checked his watch, before standing straight as Hermione's figure came through the front door. With a jangle, she placed her key in the lock and spoke to him blandly. "We're closed, sir."

"It's me," Harry said tiredly. "Who wrote their number on your hand?" he thought of Ron, and hoped the boy had made a move.

"What are you - it doesn't matter." She removed gloves from her pea-coat, hiding the writing quickly. "Why are you out so late, and is that - " Hermione stepped closer to the lamp light. "Are you  _bleeding?"_

"Uh. Yeah," Harry licked his lips, tasting iron. "I need a ride. I don't really want to be alone right now."

"Of course," Hermione said, with adamant understanding. She plastered herself to his side and escorted him briskly toward a busier block. Successfully hailing a taxi, they were home in minutes, the traffic sparse at nine p.m. Hermione gave him a towelette to cover his lip, promising to make him an ice pack and a plate of microwaved leftovers when his stomach rumbled.

The cab smelt strongly of weed, Harry realized, now intimate with the stench. Hermione covered her nose with a gloved hand and rolled down a window. A cool, wintry breeze soothed the angry warmth that lingered in Harry's cheeks. "Did something happen tonight?" he asked her, wanting to distract from Hermione's heated, questioning gaze. She flushed, averting her eyes.  _Success_.

"N - not really," she tugged at her coat. "A few new books came in - "

"Hermione," Harry said knowingly. "We both know what I meant."

"Did you - did you  _dare_ him to talk to me? I  _knew_ you talked to him, had him ask all the right questions and suggest going to see that new documentary on deaf children this weekend. How else could he have been so  _perfect?"_ she flustered.

"I didn't  _dare_ him to do anything," Harry swore. "I wouldn't. He said you were pretty, and I thought it best to warn him before he blurted out something stupid, or asked you to a  _burger joint_ or something."

Hermione winced. "I suppose I'm thankful for that. I'm not a meat-lover like you and Tonks."

Harry stared at her, wondering if she understood the euphemism. "You don't seem terribly enthused about your date. If you don't want to - "

"It's just one date," Hermione doled out a wad of notes for their driver. "I - I have to  _try,"_ she said, almost to herself, as they stepped out in front of their building. "He seems perfectly nice, and funny, and red is close enough to pink - " Hermione cut herself off, as if she said something incriminatory. Harry didn't seemed to be listening as he buzzed them up. Hermione was relieved beyond reason, but not quite sure why. Her towelette now sported spots of crimson and Harry's mouth tasted faintly of cleaning product.

In their apartment, Tonks was sprawled on the coach in sweat pants and a Radiohead shirt, her hair pulled into a loose bun. The dreadlocks Hermione had painstakingly braided had become tangled, as Tonks didn't know how to properly care for them. A comb was stuck in her hair from a halfhearted attempt to brush it. Tonks had abandoned her hairdo for the night and watched re-runs of a reality television show.

"We should be in a reality show," was her greeting to them. "I'll be the incorrigible trouble maker, Hermione the designated 'motherer', and Harry the queer, quirky artist - " she finally looked up, taking in Harry's split lip and Hermione's flustered expression. "Woah," Tonks sat up, muting the telly. "What the hell happened?"

Hermione huffed through her nose. "He won't tell me," she stalked off to fetch him some ice.

Harry sat down with a grimace, feeling bruises on his sides from where Draco had held him. He hoped Tom didn't notice the marks. He supposed they were exclusive now, and from Tom's reaction to Oliver Wood -  _overreaction,_ his mind supplied, reminding him of a faceless victim and a missing person's sign on the library bulletin - the older man was a possessive bastard.

"The last time you came here like this, it was all Malfoy's fault," Harry flinched at her words. Tonks backed away from where she was inspecting the cup, apologetic. "You weren't  _hit_ were you? It looks like - " her eyes flashed in realization. "That rat bastard! Malfoy did this!" she shouted out to Hermione.

The refrigerator door slammed. "What? I thought he was too busy with his baby mama."

"Harry's not denying it!" Tonks pointed at him. Harry cringed, sinking lower into the couch. "What'd he  _do_ to you?"

Gratefully, Harry accepted the bundle of ice and a helping of lukewarm, store-bought shepherd's pie from Hermione. "He - uh - kissed me," Harry said awkwardly around a mouthful of peas and the ice-pack at his chin. "Ambushed me outside the library in his dad's car."

Tonks turned an accusatory glare at their roommate. Hermione's eyes went wide at the unfounded hate. "That's your 'place of business'," Tonks mocked. "Shouldn't it be a safe place?"

"It's a  _public library_ ," Hermione shot back. "I can't chose who comes and in out, or else you'd have been blacklisted a  _long_ time ago. Besides, if I knew, I would've helped, but I was . . . otherwise engaged." Her turn of phrase made Harry's stomach turn. Engagement was the last thing he wanted on his mind.

"Hermione's got a date," Harry inserted, spearing a chunk of indiscernible meat. His nose crinkled at it. No wonder Hermione was a vegetarian. "My lab partner, Ron, asked her to the movies."

The girl in question turned red, but watched Tonks carefully for a reaction.  _Any_ reaction.

"That's great," the woman said blandly. Not  _that_ reaction. Hermione's heart sunk; it felt heavy in her chest. "We'll squeal over that later. Tell us what happened with the wanker," Tonks poked Harry.

Lifting her head, Hermione tried to pay attention.

"Draco never really apologized," Harry picked at his food. "Just tried to explain, and said he had changed. Draco's a horrid actor. I've seen his television show enough times - under duress, mind you - to tell when he's putting on a sob story." He shook his head, pushing away the pie, suddenly too ill to finish. "He talked about the baby, and how apparently Astoria - "

"That bitch," the two synchronized.

" - didn't know Draco was dating someone at the time. So I can only hate her a little, now," he said glumly. "She kinds of hates him, too, but Draco's dad wants them to marry for some unfathomably conservative, heterosexual reason," Harry waved a hand. "A fear of bastards, or something."

"That's funny," Tonks snorted. "Considering I'm quite sure Draco isn't his father's son. I can't  _believe_ we're related," Tonks shook her head, vaguely disgusted. "I happen to like Aunt Narcissa, but I'm just saying, brain dead and underdeveloped as he is, I wouldn't doubt a bit of inbreeding was involved. Cousin Reggie  _did_ always flirt with Aunty Cissa at family reunions."

Hermione and Harry inched away, as if incest was contagious. If Harry began lusting after his cousin, Dudley . . .

" _Anyway,"_ Harry pressed on, not hiding his shudder. "Draco began on about needing emotional support and a way out of marrying a woman who hates him. I suppose decided it was perfectly rational to ask a man who hates him for his hand in marriage."

Harry finished, tossing the melted ice pack aside. He let that sink in, and could practically  _feel_ the daggers shooting from Tonks' eyes. "To convince me how  _in love_ he is, Draco preceded to maul me like a fucking bear, using more teeth and vigor than Tom on a good day. An  _extremely_ good day," Harry trailed off, touching his lip. He wondered if it was too late to visit his boyfriend. Tom liked to mark what was his, and if anything, Harry needed an erasal of this night from his memory, for good. But as for Draco . . .

"You can't tell Tom. He'd  _kill_  him," Harry said, realizing how bad an idea that was.

"Let him," Hermione snarled.

"I'll help," Tonks added.

"No,  _no,"_ he pushed their hands away, scrubbing a hand through his hair. "Tom can't go to jail, not now. He's - he's working on something." He winced slightly at the revelation. "Stealing something. Something big."

Hermione's eyes went large. "Art?"

"Jewels?" Tonks asked, practically vibrating in her seat.

Hermione frowned deeply, whispering  _sotto voce._ "A  _person_?"

Curls bounced as Harry shook his head. "The Mirror of Erised. Or, rather, what's inside of it."

Grunting, Harry reached for Hermione's laptop on the other side of the couch and booted up the internet. He zoomed in on a photo of a large, glistening gem embedded into the mirror's golden frame.

Hermione reached over his shoulder to click the attached link.

 _"'The Philosopher's Stone,"_  she began in her patented lecturing voice. " _Un_ _like it's fabled counterpart, does not, in fact, turn any metal into pure gold or grant immortality. It is, however, far more valuable than any other gem. The Philosopher's Stone is the largest ruby in existence, discovered by miners in the 15th century. The mirror was made for a French queen and used for centuries by French royalty until the reign and subsequent fall of the monarchy during Napoleon Bonaparte's time. The mirror, and it's precious cargo, was reclaimed and reconditioned by antique collectors Nicholas and Pernelle Flamel. In an act of great charity, after decades of time in a secure, temperature-regulated location, the mirror has finally been returned home to the French_ Louvre _.'"_

The girl reared her head back. "The  _Louvre?_  That's impossible. You can't  _steal_ from the largest museum on Earth. It's more secure than most prison institutions - "

"He's not stealing from the  _Louvre,"_ Harry explained patiently, moving the computer from her wildly gesticulating hands. "He's stealing from the  _Magic is Might_ exhibition in London." His fingers flew across the keys, pulling up a monochromatic webpage with the words  _Magic is Might_ scrawled across the top in elegant cursive. 

"The mirror is being transported there in four months," he cleared his throat and began reading. " _T_ _he exhibition showcases dozens of mythological artifacts, like the Hand of Glory, a cursed Opal Necklace, a Book of Thoth reclaimed from the Library of Alexandria - "_

Hermione was practically giddy with excitement.

"Unfortunately, it's invitation only," Harry finished with a grimace. "And not just anyone receives an invite. That's the part Tom is having  _issues_ with."

"Tosh," Tonks was staring down at the computer with an expression her roommates knew well. "If he really wants the Stone, a little thing such as  _permission_ should never be a challenge," she stated with avarice. "I want in."

Harry blinked, not sure why he was surprised. "Um, well, Tom already has his hands full with the Death Eaters, Tonks - " he began.

"Doesn't matter. I'm better than all of them. I'm not just some trigger-happy kleptomaniac, Harry, I happen to have something called dignity. And I will forever hate myself if I don't get my hands on that Phallocratic Stone, or whatever - "

"Philosopher's," Hermione corrected. "You won't like what phallocratic means."

 _"Hermione,"_ the other girl said, suddenly in her face, eyes imploring and lips quirked. "Darling. You  _love_ the idea of attending that  _Magic is Might_ exhibition. It's practically  _made_ for you."

Hermione looked stricken at their close contact. Tonks was leaning over her, hands on Hermione's wrists, holding her down gently. Her breasts were alarmingly pressed into Hermione's, the warmth and rhythm of her heartbeat bringing her to speechlessness. All that pale skin, and the flowery smell of Tonks hair was too much.

"W - well," Hermione stammered, wiggling beneath her. "If I was invited, sure, but I don't condone -"

"I'll get you an invitation," Tonks swore. "We'll put you in a pretty dress that shows off your beautiful curves - courtesy of Harry, of course - and you'll distract all the security guards while I pluck - " she reached into the air, eyes alit with inspiration. "The Stone from the Mirror right under their noses. It's perfect." Hermione, reeling from Tonks calling her 'beautiful', nearly missed Harry's response.

"It's going to be a little more complicated than that," Harry said, amused. "I suppose . . . if you're really determined to help out, I can ask Tom to let you in on his task force. His Death Eaters  _are_ ridiculously incompetent, he's always complaining about them - "

Tonks pulled away with a triumphant grin, fixing her top.

Dazed, Hermione placed a hand on her rapidly pounding heart. "What - what did I just agree to?" she asked, breathless.

"Nothing good," Harry assured her.

* * *

**_To be continued in_ The Merciful **


	7. Chapter 7

**_Part Two of_ ** **_The Dreadfuls_ ** **_is up._ **

**_Visit[The Merciful,](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15230178)_**

**_And check out my Tumblr for chapter updates, aesthetics and fan art at_ **

**_[TanninTele.](https://tannin-tele.tumblr.com/) _ **

 


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